The Blood of the Martyrs
by Mme Bahorel
Summary: After the first revolution of 1848, Combeferre is released from prison into the care of his younger brother, who had thought him dead. Now they must reclaim their relationship and discover their purposes in the new republic. In progress.
1. Chapter 1

I could not believe it. Telegrams at the breakfast table are not unusual, due to my business, but this one was a shock. My wife certainly believed we must have gone bankrupt, for try as I could, it was impossible to remain expressionless.

"I hope this news may be welcome stop Your brother Julien Mathieu Combeferre will be released from prison in two days stop Wait at the gates of the Little Bastille at sundown and a representative of the republic will assist you and your brother stop"

It was from a M. Gilles Radet, and M. Radet had just given me the greatest shock of my life. Sixteen years ago, early in June of 1832, my family had been told that Julien was dead, killed in the uprising. Yet M. Radet seemed to be in his right mind - the telegram came to me, not to my father, who had died only in November. Julien was alive.

Hélène preferred to stay in Marseilles. I did not blame her - she never knew Julien, and she was uncomfortable in Paris. Here, we are at the top of the social scale because the Enjolras family no longer exists. In Paris, we are not considered so fine. As it was, Mathieu and Julie needed to have at least one parent still at home, though the nanny is quite competent. Paris did not seem like such a good idea to me, either, but I could not let the possibility of running into Sebastien get in the way of reconciliation with my brother. I miss him dreadfully, and the thought of him only makes my bed seem colder, but he made his choice. I will not let his quarrel with me prevent me from seeing my brother.

I left Marseilles immediately so I could prepare the house in town to receive him. Though I was supposed to leave for Sweden the next week, business would have to wait. Julien was far more important than even the most important contract. Losing Stockholm, if it happened, would be a blow, but it would not destroy the business. The trip seemed to take forever. I never realised it could be so long by rail from Marseilles to Paris. The house was soon aired. I had known, for some reason, to hold onto it when Father died, though we rarely come to Paris. All that I could do was wait. Perhaps the longest wait of my life. Not even when mother was on her deathbed so many years ago did the minutes tick by as if they were days.

Would he be happy to see me? Undoubtedly he would be greatly changed. Sixteen years is a long time, and time changes everyone. Prison would have changed him even more, surely. But I held out the hope that he would not be so different. Even if he still hated me, I would not be hurt terribly. I gave him ample cause for it, I am sure. When I was a child, I worshipped him, and all the missed time still hurts. When I was very young, maybe six years old, the best day of the year was when Julien would come home for Christmas. In the summer, he would always be at the Enjolras estate, but at Christmas, he was home with me. Eleven years is a massive age difference between brothers, but I do remember that when I was very young, he would play with me and read to me. But then he went off to university, and he stopped coming home. When he did come home, he and mother and father would argue, and after a while, I would see him perhaps twice a year. He started to break promises he made me - he never came for my twelfth birthday, as he had promised he would. Our parents disapproved of what he was doing - he began to despise me as the perfect one because I was in no position to act out, to do something of which our parents would disapprove. No matter what he did, though, he was still the favourite. Father wept for Julien, but not for mother. I never mattered. If I was the perfect one when he was alive, then why did I constantly hear "You should be more like your brother" after he was dead? And I was certainly far from perfect. He got himself killed for nothing; my wife caught me fucking a man. Yeah, I'm the perfect one. So much happened between us in the last few years of his life. So much hate on both sides. It was not until some time after he died that I realised I missed him.

The time finally arrived. A small crowd was waiting at the gates of the prison popularly called the Little Bastille. Even in my time in Paris, everyone knew that political prisoners were kept there. I never dreamed that Julien could be locked up in that place. There were all sorts of people waiting - aged parents looking for sons, women with children waiting for husbands, men and women coming for brothers. And then there was me. I was the youngest, except for the children, and I was the only one alone. Julien had been right in many ways - no one else was around to remember him. Even the woman to whom he left his money, the wife of one of his friends, even she likely remembered him only as a name to attach to her fortune. I am the only one.

A young man, several years younger than I, began to speak with each family, moving groups of people around. When he came to me, I learned that he was the M. Gilles Radet who had sent the telegram. He could not have been more than twenty-five years of age and was still excited by the success of his revolution. He was separating groups of people by location of the men for whom they waited. We chatted a bit, since the age difference between us was not so great. He had been a law clerk, which is why he was charged with this responsibility. He had the greatest respect for my brother, he told me, though this was accompanied by a few warnings.

"M. Combeferre was brought in wounded and placed among the general population as soon as he could stand, according to the prison records. After three years and several trips to the infirmary, beaten literally within an inch of his life each time, he was sent to the solitary cells below ground. I believe he was still periodically abused by the guards for some time, as all the prisoners were, but he has been practically ignored for the past eight years or so." My brother's history in the prison was related with a proper combination of sympathy and business. "He speaks very little, but I do not doubt that his mind is still intact. I suffer a bit from night blindness, and it was too dark for my eyes down there, but it appears that he has kept some sort of calendar on the wall of his cell. The date and year did not surprise him as they did most of the others who had spent less time in solitary confinement. Prison is designed to break men's spirits - I am sure you will not even recognise your brother, monsieur. But seeing you, there is no doubt that these records, and not the death records are correct. I can see a physical resemblance. Your brother is alive and will come out shortly."

I thanked him for taking so much time with me, and he moved on to the next family, a woman and her brother waiting for her husband. Prison was designed to break men. He had been physically beaten. Could this really be Julien? One look from him could freeze anyone who dared quarrel - I could never argue with him if I looked into his eyes. What could they have done to him?

I would soon find out. Julien was in the first group of prisoners. The first men who were brought out could not walk - each had two young men to support him. The fourth man could walk, though with the painfully slow gait of an eighty-year-old. He shuffled along with the help of a young man and was given to his parents. I could not help but wonder how old he was, for he seemed older than the couple who received him, though they must have been in their sixties. I watched them for some time, when suddenly a boy was at my side.

"M. Combeferre?"

I turned, and there he was. Shorter than I, bent with age though he was only forty-two, his hand on an eighteen or nineteen-year-old boy's shoulder for balance. "Julien?" I could not believe this could be him, but at his name, he looked up, hiding behind his long, matted grey hair, his face obscured by a thick beard. His eyes were still as deep as the last time I saw him.

"Charles," he whispered, then looked back at the ground.

Though every instinct rebelled, was repulsed by this beggar who stood before me, I mustered my courage and put my arm around his thin shoulders. "The carriage is just past the gate. Let's get you home." We walked slowly and silently. He often had to grab my arm or coat to keep his balance, as if he were a baby learning to walk for the first time. In the carriage, he huddled in a corner, staring at his hands. I was at my leisure to examine him. His hair was mostly grey, but still streaked with black. I remembered that for all the time Julien spent studying, he had always been well-built. This man was a skeleton. He was dressed in rags and gave off a slight stench, like the beggars in the streets. M. Radet had told me that the prisoners could bathe only once a year, and the sheer number they found in the Little Bastille made it impossible to be sure all the prisoners had a bath and better clothes. Julien had always despised dirt - to see him like this was heartbreaking. His left hand he held stiffly, and it was horribly contorted. It was difficult to see his face, because he looked down the whole way home, but I could see a small scar cutting into his right eyebrow. The first good sign of anything was that his forehead seemed unlined and his eyebrows were still black. He was so pale, though. Our family is naturally so dark, olive-skinned like the Italians, that I did not think it possible for any of us to attain such a pallor. He was nearly as white as my shirt. I must have been exaggerating, for I examined him only by the moonlight, which makes everything seem quite pale, and the small rays of light from the carriage lamps that managed to sneak inside.

When we arrived at the house, I immediately passed him off to one of the maids, a very capable girl in her early twenties who had been with my father for a few years, with the instructions that he was to have a bath, a shave, and a haircut before he came down to dinner. She told me later that the only words he spoke were "thank you" and, when she tried to help him undress for his bath, "I can manage alone." Each phrase was spoken in a polite, deferential manner, whispered hoarsely rather than truly uttered aloud.

She brought him downstairs some time later, looking much more like himself. Clean shaven and with his hair cut short again, though shorter than I remember him ever wearing it when he was alive (is that the wrong term? I still do not know.), he could no longer hide his high cheekbones, more prominent now than ever, or the characteristic set of his jaw. But it was suddenly more obvious that much had happened to him. A long scar travelled down the left side of his face, and because his shirt was not buttoned all the way, I could see the trace of a bullet wound on his chest. It is a miracle that it hit neither heart nor aorta. My clothes were far too big for him, but they were the only suitable clothing in the house. His shirt sleeves and his trousers both had to be rolled up, and nothing would sit well on his emaciated frame.

He sat down carefully at the table and quietly thanked the maid for her help. We were suddenly alone for the first time in sixteen years. I could not find the words, any words, to say to him. He finally looked up, and we made eye contact across the table.

"Thank you for your kindness. I will be out of your way in a few days so that you may return to your life without me destroying your peace."

I was finally able to smile at him. The voice was hoarse and quiet from disuse, but the words were his. "Julien, don't be silly. You are family, certainly not a burden, and I want to spend more than a few days with my brother. We have a lot of catching up to do." He said nothing, just stared at his hands. The words were certainly his, but it was only a shadow of him that sat before me. I ordered that dinner be served.

He quietly thanked the boy who served us, an old habit I had forgotten until I saw it again. No matter what had happened to him, his manners were still impeccable. If one could see only how he ate, and not his appearance, one would think Julien had spent the past sixteen years in society, not in prison. But he ate very little and said even less. I did my best to engage him in conversation.

"Isabelle Laurier became engaged three months after your revolution, was married within a year. I hear she is on her second husband by now. Mother and Father would have been furious at how quickly she moved past you, except I think they barely noticed. Your death - should I say that? - hit them very hard."

"Death is as good a term as any other." His voice was a bit stronger, I thought. A good sign. "What of Mother and Father? Are they in Marseilles? Or are they . . ." He did not have to finish. I knew I would have to tell him soon.

"I'm sorry. Mother died quite a few years ago, while I was still in school. Father passed on this past November." I decided it was best not to tell him that Father remained in Paris while Mother was dying in Marseilles, or that Father died calling for Julien. I may have been the perfect one, but he was the favourite. His death destroyed their marriage, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. Changing the subject quickly, I told him, "I took your advice. School is not so bad as work and marriage, though I am sure each could be worse." Julien had told me a long time ago to stay in school for as long as possible because it was the only way to avoid marrying and going to work for our father. "Her name is Hélène, she is supposed to be quite pretty, and our marriage was mother's final triumph. We've been married seven years - two children, which is quite enough. I named them both after you."

That got his attention. His eyes leapt from his plate to my face. "After me? But you hated me."

"And I was fifteen. You have no idea how much I missed you once it hit me that you were really gone. Hélène doesn't know, but I did name them for you. Mathieu is the eldest - he's six, and Julie is two. Both of them are Combeferres - dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, and extremely well behaved. They make being at home a little easier to bear."

"I am surprised you had another child after your unwanted wife gave you an heir." Our last fight was when I was forced to admit to him what I already knew in my heart - Julien knew what I was. His tone was as dry as ever: Julien was home.

"Yes, well, it would have looked wrong, you see," I stammered out. And then I had to admit what had happened. "And, well, it just sort of happened - I didn't think she'd actually get pregnant again, and I had to sleep with her sort of as a peace offering. She caught me. In bed. With Sebastien." I could feel my face getting hot and red. No one likes admitting that they were cheating on their wife, much less with a man.

"Charles, I told you to be discreet." Everything was back to normal. He was sitting straighter, glaring at me. Even the tone of voice was just as I remembered it - the only audible sign that anything had happened to him was that he whistled a bit through his broken front teeth as he spoke. I never thought I could be so happy that my brother disapproved of me.

"I thought I had been. Sebastien travelled with me as my valet. Hélène wasn't supposed to be home when she was, and she never goes into that part of the house. I really did try, Julien." I suddenly realised I was whining like a small child.

"Obviously you did not try hard enough. Someone found out. You promised me no one would find out." He cared more about how it looked than he did about the fact I was gay. Which may have been a good thing - he did not condemn me for being what I was. When we fought over it, I was foolish enough to believe that while something was wrong with it outside of school, I would be safe as what I am in school because everyone else at least tries it, and lots of them like it, even if they are straight after they enter the real world. You have no choice in there, locked up like that: you're either a fag or a monk. Julien was a monk his entire life - I was certain he would die a virgin. I didn't want to end up alone like he did, though it happened anyway.

"I'm sorry. I've disappointed you again."

"No, you have not." Something new. "Do you love him?"

"Sebastien? I did. I think I still do. But he left me."

"Why?" Now he was asking about my life, in the most tender tone I had ever heard from him. What was he planning?

"Because after all those years, he wanted more than I could give him. We were together for eight years. He left me last June. Said he couldn't take it anymore. He wanted a life, and my circumstances kept him in bondage, he said."

"Did he love you?"

"I thought he did. Before I was married, he did. And it wasn't the marriage that caused it. He was the best man at my wedding. He stayed for six years after I married. And it must have been love. Sebastien and I attended university together. Why would a handsome young man with a university education masquerade as someone's valet unless he was in love? I'm sure he loved me, once, but I don't know that he does anymore."

"You are lucky, Charles."

"Me? Lucky? My wife caught me fucking a man!"

"You have known love. You have been in love and had that love returned. I would give almost anything to have had that."

"You're not exactly old, Julien - don't start sounding like an old man."

"You will never understand. Though I may be forty-two years old, I feel much older. You would only understand if you had been there with me."

I remembered the man who seemed older than his aged parents. "I'm sorry. I do understand what happened in there. But if you changed so much, why do you still berate me? Do you know how scared I was when I got that telegram? How frightened I became at the prison gates, waiting and knowing nothing? Seeing what had happened to all those other men? I was afraid of what might have happened to you. I'm not a naïve fifteen-year-old anymore, Julien. And my greatest fear was that I would not be getting my brother back. You have no idea how happy it makes me to have your disapproval, for it means you haven't changed. I always did love you. When I was a child, I worshipped you; when I was a boy, I loved you; and when I grew up into a man, I missed you dreadfully. So did Mother and Father. No matter how much we fought, I always had something I wanted to share with you, and it hurt every time I remembered you were gone. You should be glad Mother isn't here - I remember how much you hate a fuss. If she were here, you know what would happen: the event of the season for your homecoming." It was not much of a joke, but I laughed anyway. I think I may have caught a trace of a smile on his lips, though he said nothing. Mother's "event of the season" never fully materialised - every new party was grander than the last, but always someone would out-do her. My wedding was the closest she came. Planning it kept her alive the last few months. That's why I went through with it - I couldn't bear the thought of her dying. Someday I would have to tell him, but not that night.

It finally dawned on me that he must have been exhausted. "I think the staff has your bed ready. In your old room. I can't even bring myself to sleep in Father's room. He changed nothing about the house in sixteen years, in case you couldn't tell."

He suddenly looked back down at his hands. "Thank you," he whispered in the same tone he had used with the servants. I sighed. We were back to the beginning.

I pitied him, being in this state, and I hated myself for it. Pity was never an emotion that Julien had accepted in any form, for himself or for others. But I did feel pity. "I'll help you upstairs," I smiled at him. He looked up at me, confused, but took my arm to steady himself as he stood up from the table. I was on his left side, so I could see how angry his scar really was, jagged and twisting, not at all well-healed, and he was forced to use his bad hand to grasp my arm. I had not been thinking, otherwise I would never have made him use that hand. Yet he was able to grasp my arm, not just touch it, but put his fingers around it. The fingers were horribly twisted, but they still functioned. "What happened?" I asked, half to myself.

"A guard stepped on it. I had to set it myself without proper bandages because they would not let me go to the infirmary again." He recited the short narrative as if it belonged to another person.

"Does it hurt?" I immediately cursed myself for asking such a foolish question.

"It has healed. There is very little pain," he answered in a monotone. Very little pain. Meaning it still gave him trouble.

"How long ago did it happen?"

He thought for a long time. "About nine years ago," he finally replied in the same tone, or lack of tone, rather. Nine years, and it still hurt. It had healed, yes, but not properly.

"A doctor should look at that."

"A doctor should look at many things, but it is too late for him to be of any use." He was right, as always. The only cure would be to systematically break all the bones again and set them properly, hoping the ligaments, which had likely changed over time, could alter once more, back to a normal state. It was imbecilic of me to even bring it up.

"You need to get some rest. Tomorrow, I'll take you to get some better clothes, something that actually fits." I suddenly noticed something else. "And a better haircut. Lucie may be good at some things, but I don't think I'll let her cut hair again. Crooked is an understatement." I tried to make light of it, but it was impossible.

His grip on my arm tightened and he bowed his head. "I don't want to, Charles," he pleaded in a child-like voice I had never heard from him before.

"Nonsense. It is necessary. You will feel infinitely better once you are civilised again."

"If you think it best," he said resignedly. We went up the stairs in silence, Julien struggling with each stair. When we reached his room, he did not even say goodnight, simply locked the door behind him without a word. Lucie later told me that he had apparently slept in his clothes on, not in, his bed. I went to my room and cried myself to sleep, something I had done before only when I realised he was dead. The mix of pity, hate, and fear was boiling too hot to keep inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Around noon, Julien came into the study, where I was vainly attempting to do some work. He was dressed neatly in his borrowed clothing, his hair still wet from the bath I ordered be drawn for him as soon as he awakened.

"Why did no one wake me?"

I stood to speak to him. "I thought you could use the rest."

"Sleep is for the idle. If I am to be here, I must be of use."

"We will deal with that later. First, lunch is likely to be ready, then we must have you fitted for some new clothes, and we should do that soon, for I have only the one overcoat."

"I have no need of it. It is as warm outside the prison as inside; indeed, with the sun, it may be warmer."

"Yes, but you have now spent a night in a warm house. I do not want you to catch cold. You need your own things. And soon."

He gave me the same look of resignation I had seen the previous night. It was so unlike him to just give in without a fight. But what I remembered of him was a lifetime away, and I had to remember that. No matter what, he was here, with me, home at last. I rang for lunch.

The meal was silent. I simply did not know what to say. So many years, yet so little to be said for them. Julien still did not eat, and I found my own appetite greatly diminished.

After we finally gave up on the attempt at a meal, I convinced him to put on my overcoat, then helped him into the carriage. He still refused to look at anything but his hands. The day was quite grey and threatened snow, but even the pale bit of sun let me examine him more closely. He had not seen the sun in sixteen years and was much the worse for it. In daylight, I could see that rather than white, his skin was almost yellowish - he looked quite ill. My coat was too big for him - his hands were hidden in the sleeves. One leg took a strange angle - likely it, too, had been broken.

I took him first to my barber for a proper shave and haircut. Jacques was a jovial old thing, about my father's age, always willing to do anything.

"M. Combeferre, I didn't expect to see you in town. What is it today? You are in need of neither shave nor haircut."

"Jacques, I would like to introduce my older brother, Julien."

"But I thought . . . Nevermind. A pleasure to finally meet you, monsieur." The family had used Jacques for years - father would not stop talking about Julien if he had a captive audience, which Jacques always was.

Julien nodded politely, but was silent. That was the first time I realised how sunken his eyes had become. He squinted in the light of the shop - the sudden sunlight was perhaps not the best thing for his eyes, but today's outing was necessary.

"So I guess I'm back to being M. Charles," I joked. "My brother is in need of a shave and a haircut."

"Of course. Just take your coat off and sit right down here, M. Combeferre," Jacques ordered, friendly as always, pulling scissors and a razor out of his cabinet.

Julien gripped my forearm tightly with his good hand. "No shave," he whispered, panicked. "No shave. Let Mlle Lucie do it."

"Julien, what is wrong? Why won't you let Jacques shave you?"

"No shave - no knives." He just kept shaking his head. No knives. What had they done to him?

"Julien, shh. It's all right. Jacques will not hurt you. And I'm right here. Nothing bad will happen. I'll be right beside you the whole time." That seemed to pacify him somewhat. He took my hand and refused to let it go until we left the barbershop. But I was able to get him to sit still for a proper haircut and shave in this manner.

"How short does he want it? Jacques asked me.

"Just even it out - I had one of our maids cut it last night, but I don't think she understands a straight line. Leave as much length as you can, and try to keep at least somewhat close to what is in style. I guess just make it look better than this."

"Of course, monsieur." Under Jacques' skillful hands, much of what was left of the worst was cut away from the back and sides so black was taking precedence over grey. "Is that all right?" he asked when he had finished. I had to admit that it was strange seeing Julien with short hair. For as far back as I could remember, he had worn his hair somewhat long - always longer than the fashion but too short to tie back, parted exactly in the centre and tucked behind his ears. Lucie had made sure that was an impossibility, and Jacques had, of course, cut it even shorter. But as strange as it seemed for me, I had to admit that it was effective. Most of the grey had been at the temples and around the back. With the back and sides cut very short and the still mostly black hair on top left longer, he looked younger, more his age.

"It looks fine to me." I added in a whisper, "He is not an imbecile - speak to him, show him."

"Of course, monsieur." He pulled out a mirror for Julien. "What do you think?"

Julien stared at his reflection for a long time in silence. Finally, he nodded. "It will suffice," he whispered.

"Now, for a shave. Is that all right with you, monsieur?" Jacques remembered to ask Julien.

Julien nodded slightly, though he gripped my hand even more tightly.

Jacques went about his work in silence. He was never silent - the situation had thrown him. Julien was tense and watched the razor cautiously, but he was silent. When Jacques finished, he produced the mirror again. "Monsieur?"

Julien took it and examined himself again. He slowly ran a hand over his face and through his hair, which was beginning to dry in the thick waves I remembered. He nodded slightly. "Much better," he whispered.

I paid Jacques and helped Julien on with his coat. I thought he perhaps stood a little straighter, but I could not be certain. His once ramrod-straight posture had dissolved almost into a crouch, as if he were making himself as small as possible. Either a cramped cell or the desire to hide had made this a habit not quickly broken.

I had expected the carriage ride across town to the tailor's to be conducted in the same painful silence. Thankfully, I was wrong. Julien spoke almost as soon as the carriage started moving.

"I wish to apologise for my behaviour in there. I allowed a childish fear to get in the way of a necessary act. I must learn to control myself better in the future. I am sorry." His voice was certainly stronger - much above the whisper he used in public, though still rather hoarse, apparently from disuse.

"Don't worry about it. People will think what they will."

"He thought me an imbecile."

"Because you did not speak and you panicked over a razor. Let him think it - you will most likely never see him again."

"You want an explanation, do you not?"

"You don't have to tell me anything."

He looked down at his hands again, playing with his fingers for a while, then he suddenly looked up. "Men with knives. I do not know why they tortured me, but they did. I did nothing wrong; I had no information to give them. There are scars." He quickly looked back down at his hands.

"Julien, I'm sorry." I reached across to put a hand on his shoulder.

"_I_ am sorry. It changes nothing."

I abruptly pulled back. "Of course." I did not know what else to say.

"Why must you take me to a tailor? Something ready-made would be suitable."

"Because my brother is not going to wear something of that poor quality. And, if you want me to be perfectly frank, nothing ready-made is going to fit you properly in your state." I immediately cursed myself for mentioning it.

He said nothing until we arrived. He still required my help to descend from the carriage, but he took my arm and endeavoured to hold himself straighter. "I am not an imbecile. Not like the rest of them."

The rest of them. Broken in body, broken in mind as well? I did not want to know, but I could not help remembering what M. Radet had told me - "his mind is still intact." Meaning some men's minds were not. I thought it best to give it no more reflection. I would rather remain ignorant of some things. Just as I turned to enter the shop, I found myself face to face with the last person I wanted to see. "Sebastien."

"Charles. It is good to see you." He was not as cold as I thought he would be.

"I wish I could say the same thing. What are you doing here?" I immediately cursed my pettiness - I knew my anger was obvious in my voice, but I could not seem to stop myself.

"Having the buttons on my coat replaced. I might ask you the same question, since you do not even live in Paris."

"I am here with my brother."

"Your brother?" The news surprised him. "But I thought - You told me - He's supposed to be -"

"The government lied to my family. I suppose I ought to introduce you. Sebastien Ture, my brother, Julien Combeferre."

"It is truly an honour to meet you, monsieur. Charles speaks of you often. I had often been sorry that I should never meet you. This is an unparalleled delight." He hadn't changed at all. As charming as ever, just as beautiful as when he left me. If anything, the light in his brilliant blue eyes was brighter. He seemed taller, perhaps, though it must have been my faulty memory. I thought he was out to spite me or something: I had been the one to convince him to grow his hair out, and now, though he almost always kept it tied back when he was with me, he was wearing his beautiful, thick blond hair down around his shoulders. It was shorter, yes - just to his shoulders - but it was obvious that he not really cut it short at any point in the eight months we had been separated. Was it possible I had forgotten how beautiful he was? I had to jerk myself back to the scene before me.

They shook hands - the first time Julien had voluntarily touched a stranger. "I feel I should apologise for my brother - discretion was never a part of his character, and he tells me you were hurt by it. I am truly sorry, monsieur, for any pain my brother has caused you."

Sebastien's eyes were amused, but his countenance remained serious. "Apology accepted, M. Combeferre. Since you are in town, would you do me the honour of dining with me some evening this week? After all that Charles has told me, I should very much like to pick your brain regarding the revolution."

"Which revolution?" Julien was actually entertaining the notion! My brother and my ex-lover in a room together. And to suddenly jump to socialising with Sebastien after a night of hardly speaking to me? I was certain Julien was still trying to get to me somehow - no matter how long he was in there, he was still Julien. And his memories of me were sixteen years old and not far from the truth, I feared.

"The most recent one."

"I have not yet had time to see much in the way of results. There are some very capable young men involved, which bodes well for the new government, but the outcome is by no means certain. After sixteen years of darkness, even this bit of sun hurts my eyes. I am not alone - all of France was with me in that darkness. It will be difficult not to seek the diminution of the light."

"Admirably expressed. A more pragmatic view than the blind optimism I heard on the barricades. I thank you for your insight."

"You were on the barricades then?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"What?" I could not stop myself, so I kept going. "_You_ were on the barricades?"

"Yes, Charles, I was," he said evenly. Damn. He was getting angry. He turned back to Julien. "It seems foolish, I know, considering who I am, but I let myself get caught up in it. I know that in a lot of ways, the battles are for the schoolboys, then the rule is yielded to the men, but I thought that if you had done it, monsieur, perhaps I was not so wrong to participate." This was Sebastien? He had certainly fallen in with a bad crowd on his return to Paris. He had never cared much for politics. Did he realise what he was doing? He could have been killed! Or imprisoned and tortured like my brother. I could not bear the thought of his recklessness.

I had to intervene. "We have to be going. I can't say it was good to see you, Sebastien."

"Don't be petty, Charles - it's unbecoming. Monsieur, it was a pleasure to meet you. And I do hope this shall only be au revoir." As charming as ever. I still loved him; no matter what, I would always fall for him over and over again.

Julien, thankfully, simply bid him good day, and Sebastien walked off. I watched him go. He did look very well. I had hoped for some sign of suffering, I suppose, but that was nowhere to be found. I did miss him. But he would never come back to me.

Julien interrupted my thoughts. "The resemblance is striking."

"Resemblance?" Of course he noticed. Anyone who knew them both would notice.

"Do not play childish games, Charles. He looks remarkably like Henri Enjolras. So that is why you tormented us so. I knew you had never told me the whole truth, but I certainly never expected that this is what you were keeping from me."

I could feel myself reddening. "It wasn't important. It still isn't. A stupid, childish crush, perhaps - certainly nothing more."

"Yet you fall in love, or claim to, with a pale reflection of him."

"We certainly do not need to discuss this now. Let's go inside."

He grabbed my arm. "Is this necessary, Charles? There are - there are scars. I am sure of it. Everywhere I can reach, I feel them. No one should see that."

Everywhere he could reach? Dear god, what had happened? But he was not so agitated as he had been at the barbershop. "Please? No one will say anything. And you need clothes. Please do it. For me?"

He looked at the ground for a while, then finally looked up to make eye contact. "Very well. It must be done." He took a deep breath and we went inside.

André, my tailor, was not as surprised to see me as Jacques had been. It was a bit early, yes, but I often stopped in Paris for a day or so on my way out of the country, so that I could pick up the finished product when I returned. I was about a month early, but my time could range from the beginning of the season to almost Easter, most often around the middle of March. I would usually only be in town for a day, but André did not know my habits. For all his mannerisms, we had never traveled in the same circles.

"M. Combeferre! How might I help you today?" André always seemed more of a fairy than anyone I had ever slept with, and he was in rare form today, taking mincing steps towards us as he clapped his hands. In spite of his manner, he was as straight as they come, with ten children at home, at last count. One per year since he was married, I believe, but I was in no mood to explain that to Julien. Let him think whatever he liked. Sebastien had soured my mood.

"André, this is my older brother, Julien. He needs, well, everything. Suits, linen, overcoat, shoes - everything."

He gave Julien a look that I did not like, bordering on distaste, but how could anyone refuse such a massive order? I would be spending nearly a thousand francs on clothes for Julien, and with ten children at home, André could not afford to refuse the commission. He covered himself the best he could. "Yes, of course. Come in, monsieur, come in, and let us take a look at what you would like." I had to push Julien forward out of the doorway, but he took the next steps on his own. "Why don't we take some measurements first, then we'll see what to do with them, hmm?"

Julien seized up again, but a hand on his shoulder seemed to calm him. He was tense, yes, but I could feel it lessen slightly when I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Very well."

"Come right on back, then. M. Charles, why don't you and my apprentice start discussing the business while I take M. Combeferre's measurements?"

"No. I want Charles with me." His voice was the firmest I had heard it since he came home, Julien wanted me with him. Meaning whatever there was to see, he wanted me to see, not just some stranger.

"Of course I'll stay with you, Julien. I know it's rather irregular, André, but we're doing it regardless."

"Of course, messieurs. In the back, s'il vous plaît." Julien refused my arm for the walk to the back of the shop, which I thought was a good sign.

Once in the room André used for fitting and alterations, with the door safely locked, I helped Julien off with his coat and took a seat in front of the mirror, effectively blocking it, which I thought best. "I'm right here, Julien. Just sitting here until you need me, ok?" He nodded.

"Alright, monsieur. Whenever you are ready."

Julien shot me a look of terror, but he slowly began to unbutton his shirt. I was afraid of what I might see. He would not be hurried, but he had a look of concentration on his face. No matter how difficult it might be, he was going to do something in an appropriate manner today. He looked up at me every so often. Finally, he got his shirt off. I was not prepared for what I saw.

I think I could pick out every one of his ribs. There was the bullet wound I had noticed earlier, and another one towards the right side of his shrunken stomach. His upper arms were both criss-crossed with a network of fine scars - I supposed those were the knives. Julien would not look at me as André quickly took the measure of his shoulders and arms, scribbling the numbers in a book around his neck.

"I will take your inseam now, monsieur. To the right or to the left?"

Julien did not answer, but he turned slightly in order to present his left side to André, allowing me to see his back. The horrid mess that was his back. The lines on his arms were not the only ones - they continued across his shoulders. His shoulderblades seemed to cut through his skin, and there was a permanent footprint in the small of his back, composed of dents the size of the American coin called a dime. There was a scar to match the one on his abdomen - one bullet had pierced him through. It was all I could do not to gasp in horror at what I saw. I had not expected anything nearly as bad or as widespread as this, even though he said he could feel the scars everywhere. There was even a brand on his left shoulder - a hollow triangle the size of a big sou. My brother was branded as a common criminal, and André had to see that. The measurements were soon completed and Julien could dress again, much more quickly than he had undressed. When he had finished and looked at me with sorrowful eyes, I went over to him and put my arm around his shoulders, whispering "I understand. I will never ask again."

"You will never understand, because there are scars you will never see," he whispered back.

"Well, now that we have measurements, let us look at patterns and cloth. I have just got in a new bolt of a muted red that would do nicely for a waistcoat."

"Black. I only wear black. Simplest cut possible, average fabric. I do not need the finest. Same with linen. Simple and plain."

"Very well, monsieur. But please, at least have a look at what I can offer you."

"Please, Julien? Let us finish this out properly."

With a sigh, rubbing his temples with his good hand, he gave a slight nod. I promised we would be done in a moment. The stress of the afternoon, coupled with brighter light than he had seen in many years, was giving him a migraine. Julien had suffered from terrible headaches most of his adult life, always brought on by stress, I think. The revolution only made them worse, and he likely continued to be often in great pain through the stress of imprisonment, beatings, and torture.

André gave it no notice. "Right this way, messieurs." He took us back to the front of the shop, where his assistant had already prepared several bolts of cloth for Julien's inspection. "Please, monsieur, feel whatever you like. I have a book of patterns which may interest you."

Julien flipped through the book, immediately choosing the simplest coat possible, though it was about ten years out of style. The rest of his choices were equally simple, taking the worst of the cloth André presented him. I was forced to make some better choices for him myself, behind his back: a simply cut grey and a fashionable black suit, and better quality linen than he had chosen. My brother was going to dress properly for once in his life, even if it killed him to do it. I ordered that much haste be made with the order, that a suit, half the linen, and the overcoat be ready in four days' time.

When we were finally able to leave, Julien collapsed wearily in the carriage, rubbing his temples. "I did it. He had no reason to think ill of me." Was there perhaps a note of triumph in his voice?

I smiled. I was proud of him, as condescending as that sounds. After the barbershop, I realised how difficult it was going to be, but he went through it without incident. "You look worn out."

"It is only a headache. It will pass. They always do."

"Too much for one day, wasn't it?"

"You felt it necessary; I thought it superfluous." We were arguing again.

"It was necessary. You needed a proper haircut, and we had to order clothes for you. You should rest when we get home."

"Home? That house was never my home; neither was it yours."

"True enough. I did not intend the connotation, simply that I prefer not say 'when we return to the house'. It sounds terrible. Regardless of how we refer to the place, when we get there, you should rest."

Julien nodded slightly in agreement, evidently to the suggestion that he rest. We finished the ride in silence. I had to help him out of the carriage, but he was able to make it up the stairs himself, using only the banister as support, though he went very slowly. "Wake me for dinner if I happen to fall asleep," he ordered me from the top of the stairs before disappearing into his room.

I returned to the study, more to think than to work. I found it more soothing to my mind to pull out pencil and paper to draw rather than write. I could not help sketching Julien's face, the twisting, jagged scar unconsciously forming under my hand. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I do think I draw fairly well from memory.

Someone came to the door, but did not come in. A short time later, the butler brought me a note. I immediately recognised the hand. Sebastien. My first reaction was to throw it into the fire. But perhaps he was bending. I needed him so much. I read the short letter slowly, hoping to find a good sign of something, anything, resembling an attempt at reconciliation.

"Charles,

"I was glad to run into you and your brother this afternoon. He is everything you said he was, gracious, intelligent, severe. But it must be obvious to you that the rest of the world can see something is not right with him physically. While it must pain you to explain it so often, there has been much between us, and I think I deserve to know what has happened to him. By all our love, I deserve an explanation.

"Doubtless you realise Paris, and myself, are greatly changed. Do you still worship that golden idol and disdain he who worships your sainted brother? It is not the worship of a lover, I assure you, but that of student for his teacher. All I ever saw around you was pain, except when we were alone. You drag it behind you as a cloud of death. Yet I still love you. You think I have fallen in with a miserable crowd, indeed, on my return to Paris. I could see it in your eyes. On the contrary, it is a marvelous group without expectations. They do not think it wrong of me to participate in their dreams, for I have very few of my own anymore. It is not the politics that draw me back day after day; I care as little for them as I ever did. They have hope; they give me hope, which is the one thing you could never give me. I need that hope, to savour it, to drink enough of it that I can begin to live again. The memory of all you told me of your brother propelled me forward, and you see the end result. I suppose I should thank you for your insistence, all those years ago, that I grow my hair out. The comparison to Jefferson is a running joke among my friends. And they are my friends, no matter what you may think. You need not fear my presence here. I have sought out none of our common acquaintance in the past eight months. You are as free here as I am.

"I hope we may communicate in person. My address follows this letter. Please, give my regards to your sainted brother, and tell him that the invitation to dine will forever stand. Come to me as late or as early as you like - I am desperate to know the truth. Leave your card under the door if I am not in. And please, Charles, do not come to argue. I have moved beyond anger. Your temper makes you quite ugly, especially when you are petulant.

"All my love, etc."

I did not know what to make of it. Sebastien still loved me, that much was certain, but he had been led into ever greater worship of Julien, which had changed him. Yet he was right. When had I ever been able to give him hope? He gave me hope, but we both knew nothing could come of our relationship but scandal and shame. Regardless, I had to try. He wanted to see me alone. Perhaps reconciliation was possible, in spite of what he said. I checked my watch. Julien was likely asleep and would sleep until dinner. I had three hours before dinner. But I stopped myself. I could not allow myself to become to eager. I would argue if my head was not clear, and three hours was surely not enough time, if we did restore our relationship. No, I could not go that day. It would have been wrong. I returned to my reveries, which more and more strayed to Sebastien, my beautiful, kind Sebastien.

Just before dinner was set to be served, I knocked on Julien's door. Receiving no answer, I tried the door and found it unlocked today. He had told me to wake him, so I thought it would not be wrong to enter.

The room was as dark as he could make it, which made it pitch black by the time I went in, around eight in the evening. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but it seemed that Julien was not in the room at all. The bed was empty, he was not in the chair, and there was no sign of anything having been disturbed, as if he had never been in the room. I was puzzled, and set to go back out, even had the door opened for the purpose, when I heard a sound in the corner. Crouched against the dark wardrobe, Julien had been effectively hidden in the darkness, the light catching his white shirt and pale skin in the same way it caught the white wall behind him.

I immediately went over to him. "Julien? Are you all right?" I knelt beside him.

He jerked his head up at once. My eyes were adjusting, and the light from the doorway helped me exceedingly. His eyes were bright with tears. "I am quite well, Charles. I must have misjudged the time." The remains of his weeping were evident in his voice, though he tried to conceal them.

"Dinner will be ready pretty soon, I think. It should be, anyway."

He looked at the far wall, probably at a greater distance than the walls of his cell had been. "You should not have come. You had no right to intervene in the justice the Furies have meted out." We had been raised Catholic, but Julien had long ago ceased to be a Christian in any sense. He believed in the Fates and the Furies, and perhaps some of the ancient Greek gods, but not in Our Saviour, Jesus Christ.

"How did I not have the right? I am your brother."

"Henri Enjolras was more of a brother to me than you ever were. Why did you bring me to this place? I never liked this house. You should have left me to finish rotting away in some dark corner of the city."

"I always loved this house because this is the only place that ever had good memories for me. You were never around in Marseilles, but you were here with me when the holidays came. I was not about to let you rot away. You're my brother, and I love you, and I want to make things right."

He bowed his head in a singular manner, which would have hidden his face completely if his hair had still been long. He realised it was impossible to hide and looked back at the wall, running his good hand through his hair. "You wanted to make things right," he repeated.

"Of course. You may not believe it, but I have grown up, Julien. What I wanted more than anything in coming up here was your forgiveness. I know I must have done some things that helped aggravate the already brewing conflict between us, and I am sorry for it. I never wanted to lose you."

"It is too late. I am already lost."

"No. I refuse to believe it." I sat back a bit. "I was supposed to leave for Stockholm tomorrow, but I don't think I will. I thought we'd spend some time together, here in the city, let you get used to things again before I take you to meet Hélène."

"Whatever you wish. You have already proven that you control me."

"Don't let's fight. Dinner is likely ready. Come downstairs with me."

"I am not hungry."

"You have to eat. Please?"

"Go on down. I will follow in a moment."

I did as he asked. I never really disobeyed Julien. He came down a few minutes later, his hair neatly combed and his clothes straightened, no sign that he had been crying. He refused my help, but he began to eat silently. Again, the same awkward silence arose between us, as thick as the walls of the prison. "I have no plans, since I am not to go to Stockholm. I suppose we will not leave the house again for some time."

"I have no wish to leave this house unless it is to relieve you of this burden."

"You are not a burden, Julien. You are no more of a burden to me than Mother was to Father."

"You contradict yourself." Everyone knew the marriage was forced, but I never thought it was that bad before Julien died. I saw it get worse after the insurrection failed.

"I speak of before you died. It deteriorated quickly without you."

"Mother tired of not condemning me to the entire world?"

"Mother became ill. Less than a year after your death, she removed herself to Marseilles, hoping the air would be better. Father refused to go. All because you were no longer there." Damn it all! I had no wish to discuss it so soon after he came home.

"How did she die?" he asked softly, almost tenderly. He was Father's son and always hated Mother. Their arguments were the most bitter. To hear his tone, one would think he actually did love her.

"The doctors never really knew for sure. She felt ill, and spent many years wasting away. It took nearly ten years to kill her, whatever it was. I only got married because she begged me so much. Father came down to Marseilles for the wedding because Mother was too weak to travel. I think planning it kept her alive a few more months, because she died two weeks later. Father had already returned to Paris, and he would not come, though we wired him."

"Wired him?" he asked.

"Wire. I'm sorry. Things have changed greatly. The telegraph wire had just gone up between Paris and Marseilles when mother died. I sent Father a message over the wire, but he responded that he would not come."

"Telegraph _wire_," he repeated

"Yes. A horrid little machine, but very handy for business. Wires are going up all over France and England, and even America will soon be covered. I only use it for emergencies, as most people do, but it is quite handy for getting short messages out of town quickly."

"You think me stupid, do you not? Having to have something that seems so simple to you explained to me?"

"You've been outside of society for sixteen years. No one could ever consider you stupid, Julien. I have no doubt that in a week, you will be explaining to me exactly how the infernal machine functions."

"Then you do not think me an imbecile?"

"Of course not. Certain things have come about very quickly, that is all. If you ask ten people in the street, I would wager that fewer than five would know about the telegraph. It is not the realm of the poor. Though if it starts working better, the machines break down constantly, the cost may no longer be prohibitive. There are lines only to Marseilles, Toulon, Lille, Le Havre, Lyon, and Strasbourg at the moment, which are necessary for business. When lines extend to the provinces, as they will in ten years, I am sure, then it will be strange not to know the telegraph. But certainly not now."

"As you say, much has changed." He was silent for a long time. "So Mother died because of me?" he finally asked quietly.

"No. What would your fates have to say to you now? If she couldn't live to see her own grandchildren, you certainly did not kill her."

"What happened to Father?"

"He remained in Paris, and I took the house in Marseilles. He stopped running the business himself long ago, and I started working after I was married. It breaks up the monotony, traveling, though I do not like it exceedingly."

"You never tried for the Beaux-Arts, then?

"How could I? You left me as the only child, and a son at that. Meant I had to marry Hélène, had to study something legitimate, and could not spend my life as I had wanted." I wondered if I sounded as bitter as the words seemed to when I thought back through them, too late to take any of it back.

Julien looked at his plate. "I am sorry." I had sounded bitter. Perhaps I was, a bit. I might still have met Sebastien even if I studied at the Beaux-Arts, and we would have been able to have a real life together. But it was useless wishing for anything.

"I'm sorry. It probably sounded as if I cared more than I do. I didn't exactly imagine things turning out like this, but then, who does? If it gives me a chance to make things better between us, I don't care."

"You are trying too hard. You make me think you want something from me, Charles."

"Good! You've done this to me your whole life!" I knew I should not shout at him, but I could not stop myself in time. "You've always been working your way into my brain, picking around, forcing me to wonder your motives every time!"

He looked at me for a long time. I was silent, unable to speak. "Where are my clothes?"

"What?" Why was he asking after his clothes?

"The clothes I came here wearing. Where are they?"

"I had them burned. Why ask something like that? Those were not clothes; they were rags at best."

"I do not wish to be accused of stealing. I will leave tonight, and you will not be troubled by me again."

"You're joking."

"When have I ever joked with you?"

He never had. Never once had we laughed, or he teased me as he should have, or any of the little things that build a family bond. We were related, but we were not a family in that sense. I only learned it from passing a summer at the home of a friend from school. "I will not let you leave."

"Then you admit I am your prisoner?"

"No! You are free, of course!"

"Then I shall leave. You obviously have a great many words to cover up a complete lack of feeling." He stood to go.

I could not help it. I will forever curse myself for my weakness that night, how I acted as a child or a woman. His last words cut too deeply into my already wounded soul, and I began to cry. Hard sobs came quickly, probably harder than I had ever cried over Julien in my life. Control was impossible. I looked up at him, the world blurred by tears, and he softened. I could not truly get hold of myself, not even after he closed the distance between us and put a hand on my shoulder. I seemed to have lost control forever, though it could have been only a few minutes. I quickly wiped my eyes and stood. "I'm sorry. I can control myself better, really. Please, do not go."

Julien looked at me for a long time, as if he was unsure what to do or even what to think. Finally, he asked, "Do you truly want me to stay?"

"It is the only thing I want, that I have ever wanted."

He nodded. "It was foolish of me to believe I could survive on the streets."

I could not stop myself. I hugged him. We had not touched in such a manner since I was a small child, and he obviously could not react. He stood there, stiffly, slowly putting his arms around me, as if he was terrified of the touch, but afraid of doing the wrong thing as well. I pulled back as soon as the realisation came to me. "I'm sorry. Shall I have them wake you in the morning?"

"Please. No later than nine o'clock."

"Do you need help with the stairs?"

"I can manage alone."

Another sleepless night of tears. How many more would there be before everything became normal?


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Julien would not leave his room. I decided it was best to give him some time alone, since he was at least letting Lucie in to take care of him, so I took the afternoon to go to Sebastien. I could not put it off any longer; I needed to see him.

He was living in a terribly small, dark little house in the narrow streets of the Quartier Latin. Cheap rent, cheap food and liquor nearby, and plenty of young men who had just been released from the boarding schools of Paris: it was a paradise for some and a hell for others. Sebastien had always looked younger than his age, making the Quartier Latin the perfect place to hide, if that is what he preferred, or to forget me in debauchery, with more wine and sex than I could ever provide. I hoped he pursued the former and not the latter course of action. Though I wanted very much to wish it, I could not bring myself to truly wish him hurt.

The concierge, if there was a concierge, did not care who came and went because there was no sign of movement anywhere in the house as I climbed the grimy stairs. I had his letter with me, and I almost turned around, but feeling it in my pocket, I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.

He opened it immediately. Obviously no one was expected, since he was only half dressed, his shirt open halfway down, showing off his marvelous chest. "You came. Come in - I was just getting ready to go out." The tone was friendly enough, but he did not smile.

The place was small but very clean - Sebastien had always been obsessed with keeping everything in its place without a speck of dirt. "I couldn't exactly stop myself. You were right about a lot of things."

"You're in a very conciliatory mood, Charles. I should think you want to get back together."

"I just want to talk."

"And your brother cannot talk?"

"He refuses to leave his room. We had an argument last night and he threatened to leave, but both of us knew it was impossible for him to go."

"What has happened to him?" Sebastien asked tenderly.

I dropped onto the sofa. "I told you about his little insurrection that failed. We were told he died. Instead, he's been in prison for the past sixteen years. Tortured, beaten, starved, humiliated in countless ways I'll never understand. That's what's happened."

"My god." He sat next to me on the sofa. "I'm so sorry, Charles."

"I can't believe what they did to him. They wouldn't set his hand properly when a guard stepped on it, so it looks a fright, even though it still functions. They beat him every day, so many times that after a while they didn't care anymore if he was beaten to death. And the torture - just for the hell of it, I think." I was near tears at that point. "They branded him, Sebastien. They branded him like a common criminal."

"You and I both know he is not a common criminal." He leaned over and moved a bit of hair from my face. "He was never common, nor was he a criminal. Does he feel any of it was warranted?"

"Of course not."

"Then perhaps he has not been as affected as you think. They did not succeed in beating him mentally. When was he released?"

"The fifteenth."

"The day before yesterday?"

I thought a moment. "Yes. My god, has it really been only two days?"

"So yesterday was the first time he had anything to do with people, as opposed to beasts, in sixteen years? He is doing remarkably well. I should not have been so forward, in his place, and I know I would not have relished the sight of people. Please forgive me for any trouble I may have caused him."

"I don't think you did any damage. Is he doing well? I wouldn't know."

"He is your brother."

"Whom I have not seen in sixteen years, since I was still just a boy, who has hated me for the past twenty years of his life, and with whom I am still fighting. I do not know him at all."

"But you know him better than anyone."

"That may be true, but no one knows him. No one ever did know him."

"I wish I could do something to help. What if I were to visit him? Engage him in conversation? In a couple weeks maybe - I don't want to push him. But after some time for him to get used to things again, I don't see how it could hurt."

Wonderful. My former lover taking my brother as a charity case. Between the two of them, I would never be able to show my face in France again. "I don't see how it can do any good. He won't let me talk to him."

"I'm sorry. Is there nothing I can do?"

"Come home with me." I could not believe I had just blurted it out like that. Weak, weak, horrid little boy!

It had just the effect I did not want. Sebastien turned away, breaking our touch. "You know I can't do that, Charles."

"If you still love me, you can."

"It's not that simple! I am a man, Charles. I need freedom as much as I need the air. And if I am with you, I cannot be free. I cannot go back to being your slave. Yes, I love you, but I need freedom more than that. I have my liberty now - I will not give that up for anything. Not even for you."

"By all our love, Sebastien -"

"No," he said firmly. "I did not ask you here to debate slavery. I wanted to hear about your brother."

"You had no other motive in writing me?"

"I asked you to come here so I could hear about your brother." He was getting angry, but he was also lying.

Abruptly changing the subject away from Julien and back to something closer to the topic at hand, I accused him, "You cut your hair."

"Yes, I did," he snapped. "What does it really matter?"

I gently tucked a strand behind his ear. "I like it. It forces you to leave it down, which I find to be an improvement."

Very quietly, almost too quietly to be heard, he admitted, "I very nearly cut it all off when I first left you. I chopped off great handfuls before I realised what I was doing, how much the idea of it would hurt you." He stood and, turning away from me, thrust a hand into his hair. "You had better go."

"Sebastien," I pleaded.

"You had better go," he said with more force, pushing me away again. "I have to finish dressing."

"Maybe you think you've changed, but you haven't." I knew I was being petty again, starting a silly argument, but I didn't care.

"Maybe I haven't. What does it really matter? Everything was always for you - always." He quickly turned to face me, his blue eyes flashing. "Do you ever think about what I gave up for you! Everything! I could have been something, but I gave it up for you. Pretending to be your servant just for the few moments we could steal from the rest of the world. Did you ever give a damn about my own dreams? Of course not. Charles is the only important one. He has been the important one ever since his brother died and left him the heir to great things he did not want. Do you have any idea why I admire your brother so much? He was given a choice between freedom and slavery, and he chose freedom. He did what he wanted, said what he wanted, wrote what he wanted, and then died how he wanted. I chose wrong, and I regret every lost day. Every day I spent alone, brushing your coat, cleaning, doing everything a servant would do just to get one kiss late at night when you were too tired for anything else. I don't regret the time we really spent together, but I regret wasting my life. At least Julien's life meant something. I grew up in Paris, remember? I can't forget the barricades. His life, and his death, meant something to a lot of people. He tried to do a great thing. What have I ever done? What have I ever been able to do, under these constraints!" He sank to the sofa, worn out with anger, but still talking. "I wanted to teach - did you know that? I wanted to teach German and English, help children read Shakespeare and Göethe in the real language, not through the eyes of a translator. I went to university not because I had to but because I wanted to. I studied philosophy because it fascinated me. And now, to earn enough to keep this room, I translate English serials for penny magazines! If I were still twenty-two, I could start as a private tutor to some rich man's children, but start out life at thirty-two? I'm too old. You took my youth, Charles. You took every chance I had and gave me nothing but hopelessness and heartache in return. I love you - god help me, I will always love you - but I cannot be with you. Please go. I must finish dressing."

I did not know what to say - not a single word of apology, a catty comment, a complaint, a sign that I gave a damn. All I could do was stand there because I knew he was right. The past nine years had all been given to me, as he followed me in everything I did. I almost slipped out without a word until the worst possible comment came to mind. "You know, blame your precious Julien for destroying your life, but don't blame me. It's his fault." Julien's presence was taking a toll on me. I never acted like this when he wasn't around, but now I was quickly becoming the fifteen-year-old he hated so much.

Sebastien looked at me, his delicate features hardened with anger. "Do not lay blame on the innocent. He was dead to the world when all of this happened."

"If he had been alive, we could have had a life together!" I was screaming. I knew how foolishly I was acting, but I did not give a damn.

"Not with my dreams! You don't let your children near a fag. I know it's just as much my fault for pursuing the relationship, but because of your situation, I never had any choice but pretend to be your servant! I hated every minute of it. Maybe if you had been strong enough to say no to your father and become an artist, as you wanted, we might have each had a chance! Perhaps I could have kept going at university and become a professor. If that had happened, we could have had the life we both wanted. But it is useless speculating what could have happened if either of us had been stronger. Your own weakness is more to blame than your brother's death." Sebastien's anger made his eyes burn with the intensity of the sun. "I think you should leave," he finished firmly.

"You - you -" I could not seem to get anything else out.

"I wish I could tell you to go to hell, but we both know I wouldn't mean it. Go home and talk to your brother."

I went home. I always did what Sebastien said. And as I walked home, I could not help thinking about Sebastien, and Enjolras, and Julien. I knew there was a superficial physical resemblance between Sebastien and Julien's best friend, the leader of the revolution. I knew it because that was what had attracted me to Sebastien in the first place - that pale blond hair, those blue, fiery eyes, the surprising delicacy of his face. Of course Julien had picked up on the resemblance. It was plain as day. But was it really just superficial? I could tell Enjolras to fuck off - he never cared for anyone, and he stole my brother. But I couldn't help being affected by Sebastien. I had known it would be a bad idea for Sebastien and Julien to become friends. Was that because I knew how much like Enjolras he was? Or did I know nothing and only suspected and perhaps hoped?

Then the weight of what had happened soaked in. It was over. Sebastien and I had fought, and now it was impossible for us to reconcile our differences. He had changed: he was more intense now than ever. I could not argue further. I went home. I spent the evening alone with my spinning thoughts. I did not think they would ever calm down.

The next day, Julien would not leave his room, and I knew I had no right to force him. I was not about to become my brother's keeper - Julien was certainly not my prisoner, and he stayed by choice. Sunday was strangely normal. Many of the servants liked to attend mass in the morning, and as Father never had any objection, I saw no reason why the practice should not continue. I paced in the study for a long time: I do not even know where my thoughts went, though they were likely on everything. Finally, for the first time since I had come to Paris, I entered the library.

The library was not mine, though the rest of the house was. From floor to ceiling, all the books belonged to Julien. His flat was full of books - so many we put them all in the library, moved the library to the study, and moved the contents of the study to Father's bedroom. Seeing all his books in there always made me feel as if I was closer to him again somehow. But when I received that telegram, something told me to stay out - the library was his, and I would be trespassing. Even worse was the prospect that certain of my father's paintings had not been put into storage. An excellent portrait of Julien used to reside in the library, with his beloved books, and I could not bear to see it. Seeing him again as he had been was not anything I intended. But I found myself at the door of the library, hesitant, but finally opening it, unsure of how I might feel seeing such things again.

The first sight on entering the room was exactly what I had not wished to see, and I quickly looked away. It was truly an excellent portrait, not terribly formal or stilted, but Julien as he had been a year before he died. There was no point in seeing it. A friend of his had been an artist, and when he was killed with Julien, his wife had insisted we take the two portraits she had - the one in the library and a much smaller, experimental painting my father kept in his bedroom. Both have always haunted me, as if Julien was still looking down at me disapprovingly, even though that was not the expression on either canvas. I avoided the portrait and started looking at the shelves and shelves of books. Julien's entire flat had been filled with them, and they all came to rest in our library. Suddenly, I heard a rustle of fabric behind me. I turned and saw Lucie trying to sneak out the door behind me.

"Lucie!" I could not help being sharp - she was an upstairs maid and should never have been in the library, especially without apron and cap as she was.

She dropped the book she was holding. "I'm sorry, monsieur. I'm so sorry. Please. M. Julien asked me to get a book. I'm sorry."

I went and picked it up myself, as no one else was going to. The fables of LaFontaine. His personal copy, the red leather cover faded and scarred and stained just as I remembered it, the brownish colour of the spine, the gilt lettering tarnished by constant use. It was a hundred years old, and looked it, and he accepted nothing else. "He asked you to get a book for him?"

"Oui, monsieur. This particular one."

"Why are you not at mass?"

"I stayed home to look after M. Julien, monsieur."

"Did he ask you to?"

"Oui, monsieur." Julien had asked Lucie to stay? And bring his copy of LaFontaine.

"Why are you not properly dressed?"

She flushed a bit at the question. "I was getting ready to go out, monsieur, when M. Julien rang and asked for the book. He asked the same question you did, monsieur, why am I not dressed as usual, and when I told him I had been on my way to mass, he asked if I would not mind staying with him this morning."

There was still some obvious fear in her eyes. She knew perfectly well that things were not as they should be. "You know how to read?"

"Oui, monsieur. M. Combeferre taught me when I came here."

"And he asked for this book?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"How did he ask?"

"Monsieur?"

"What exactly did he say?"

"He asked if any of his books were here, monsieur, and I said I thought so, and then he asked me to see if I could find a copy, any copy would do, of LaFontaine's fables. And he said his copy was red, with gold writing on the side, but the side was so faded it was brown. It is a very old book, he said, monsieur. And I am to take it up to him immediately."

I had no choice - he had asked her, not me. I handed her the book. "Then finish your task, Lucie."

She quickly thanked me and fled from the library. I could not very well follow on her heels, though it was what I most wanted. Instead, I stood looking at the rows of books without actually seeing them. That was his copy of LaFontaine. He had read to me from it. We had read from it together, after I learned to read, he reading one, I taking the next. We had spent many hours together with that book - to have him ask a maid to take it to him almost seemed a crime.

It was absurd to think such things. She was a maid. Her purpose was to serve us. Why on earth should Julien have called me to ask for a book? The suggestion was ludicrous. And he was obviously not yet willing to see me. I considered going up there, then disposed of the idea. He was still angry, which is why he would not come down himself for a book. He did not want to risk seeing me. I was not anxious for another fight, either.

I could not help looking at the portrait as I left the library. At that moment, I realised for the first time that very little had changed in him. I do not know how Feuilly did it, but in that painting, Julien's eyes looked as pained as they did the last time I saw him. There was much we never understood of each other. What could possibly have happened to cause him that much pain? Was any of it my fault? Questions that will never be answered are always the most insistent ones. I apologised to the portrait for prising. It was hardly the first time I had apologised to that picture.

Yet I could not let it go. As I climbed the stairs to return to the safety of the study, I could see that Julien's door was not completely closed. The servants had all left, except for Lucie, and I thought I heard the murmur of voices. God forgive me, I was never one for spying, but Julien has always done things like this to me. I silently crept up to the door and put my ear to the crack.

Julien was reading aloud, finishing "The Mouse and the Lion". His voice was getting better - it was no longer so raspy, though he did not speak loudly. When he finished the last stanza, I heard him say, "Your turn. I fear if I read too long, I will get a headache." His tone was apologetic, but not ill tempered.

Lucie's voice came next. "Very well, monsieur." And she continued with "The Grasshopper and the Ant". She could not read very well - Julien corrected her gently several times, as he had when we would read together. It was strange to be listening to such a familiar scene. It was almost as if all that had happened between us was nothing, and I was six years old again. But he was with a maid, being patient and kind to her, instead of seeing me. I would never understand Julien. He thanked the help, as if they existed. He insisted on being very good friends with god knows what sort of people - that artist, Feuilly, was from the streets. You could tell by looking at him he would never be respectable. And though that friendship was in the past, it would certainly have a long shadow.

Julien apparently took the book again when she had finished, reading the next couple himself.

"Is your head hurting you again, M. Julien?" I heard Lucie ask with concern when he stopped.

"It is nothing." There was a pause. He cleared his throat. Another long pause. "Thank you." And then he proceeded again, stopping at the end of the next fable. "I think perhaps that may be enough for today."

"Shall I go?" Lucie asked.

"No, please stay. How long have you been here, mademoiselle?"

"Nearly ten years, I think, monsieur. Yes, nearly ten years."

"My father treated you well?"

"Yes, monsieur. He taught me to read, himself."

"And my brother?"

"He has been very kind. May I ask something, monsieur?"

"Of course. I am surprised a well-trained servant has the nerve to ask."

"What happened to you?"

"Charles did not tell you? I have been in prison. Which is why the light hurts my eyes."

"Why? You're a gentleman. How could they do that?"

"Because I was involved in what had been unpopular and illegal political activities many years ago, and I was imprisoned rather than executed."

"Thank you. I know I should not have asked."

"You should have been told. You've been confused for a few days, I'm sure." At that point, having been crouched for so long, I lost my balance and fell against the door. "Did you hear something?" I stayed motionless - I was afraid that if I moved, I might make more noise. As it was, perhaps it could be explained away.

"Perhaps. I am not sure."

Suddenly the door opened, and I fell into the room. When I looked up, Julien was standing over me, and Lucie had her hand over her mouth and was shaking. My own servant was laughing at me. "Charles, if you wished to see me, you should have knocked." But there was something in his eyes that could almost be considered laughter. "This behaviour is beneath you."

"I'm sorry." I slowly stood up. "I can't even think of a bad excuse, much less a good one."

"At least you do not insult my intelligence with drivel."

"I'm going." Jesus, why is it that in his presence, I turn back into a fifteen year old fool? Sullen, bitter, and pushing back at every turn.

"Good day, Charles."

And so I ended up back in the study, having heard the worst - Julien was more willing to talk to Lucie than he was to even see me.

Monday morning I determined to get some work done - I had ignored it for too long. Thus I was already in the study trying to go over some papers when Lucie came in to do her morning work. At least this time she was properly dressed. She tried to excuse herself, but dusting is hardly a distraction. We both worked in silence for a long time until it finally became too much for me. Had it been anyone else, I would never have said a word. But Lucie was whom Julien preferred, and I had to speak with her.

"Lucie, what do you think of my brother?"

"What, monsieur?" She seemed surprised by the question.

"What do you think of him?"

"You want me to tell you, monsieur?"

"Yes, Lucie, I am asking for a reason. Tell me what you think."

"Well, monsieur, when you brought him here, he looked such a fright. But he's a real gentleman, monsieur. Calls me mademoiselle, remembers my name, he's always so polite." A real gentleman. Yes, that always did describe Julien.

"What else can you tell me?"

"He's got ever such a nice voice, calm and deep and nice to listen to. And he asks me to talk to him, and he talks back, like I'm not the maid and he's the master, but like he cares what I'm saying. I don't know that he does, but it's nice to think." Wonderful. Julien had never once looked at a girl, but he was making the maid fall in love with him.

"Did he tell you what he has done?"

"Monsieur?"

"Did he tell you why he was in prison?"

"Sort of, monsieur."

"Because he is a murderer and a traitor. He killed innocent men while betraying his king." I knew it was wrong as I was saying it, but I had to do something. How could I continue to allow Julien and Lucie to become friends? I could not let him make friends with the help, even if I did have to spite his nature in order to prevent further tragedy.

Lucie was shocked. The colour drained from her face and she froze. "He - he wouldn't. M. Julien is a gentleman. He couldn't."

"He did. Ask him. He cannot deny it because it is the truth. It is clean enough in here - you are dismissed."

She was so shocked that she simply left the room, without proper acknowledgment. I said nothing - I already knew I had done the wrong thing. But it could have been so much worse.

Somehow I found myself in the library again. I ran my fingers down the spines of the books, along the shelves, desperately trying to empty my brain of what I had just done. I randomly, or so I initially thought, pulled out a thin volume. Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus. Why had I chosen that one? Of all Julien's books, why did I find Frankenstein? Julien was not the monster. Perhaps a bit monstrous looking, now, his skin the colour of death and that scar as bad as any on Frankenstein's monster, but hardly the sort to strangle a child, a wife, a friend. He did not have it in him. Which is what Lucie said. He did not have it in him to murder the innocent. Yet he had. I could not believe that after fighting twice on a barricade he had still not killed. And the men of the National Guard were guilty of nothing. But then all soldiers commit murder. Julien's friends were shot and bayoneted and god knows what else. They were killed as brutally as they tried to kill the Guard. Yet in spite of the horror of their deaths, they acted against the state. Treason has always been punishable by death. Why should their deaths be considered any different? Only the executioners varied. They committed a terrible crime, and the price was paid. Julien should have paid with his life, as did the others. No, that was not true. Julien did not deserve to die, did not deserve to be treated as he had been. And that feeling meant everything else was on end.

There has always been right and wrong, and kings have always ruled France, and when they did not, chaos reigned. That was the order of things. Julien and his friends had tried to usurp that order. Yet suddenly, the same usurpation had succeeded. France was suddenly thrust under a republic. It was what Julien had wanted. He was my brother, and I loved him, but I would never understand him. Some things are beyond the grasp of the unimaginative, he would say. I did not think myself unimaginative. I had been something of an artist, once. I read the same books he did. Could we really have been born so different as to believe in different values?

I was interrupted in my thoughts by Thérèse coming to tell me that a boy from André's had come with several boxes: Julien's clothes. I ordered them taken up to my room so I could see what exactly had been brought. Boots, some linen, and unfortunately not the suits I had hoped would arrive first. My own choices, not his. Grey pinstriped trousers and a red waistcoat were the first items I saw. As it was, the closest to his own choices that I could offer Julien were a black suit in a fashionable cut and the red waistcoat, which I had ordered be cut very conservatively. It was my own fault. I had not anticipated a quarrel, and I had not specified what should be ready when. There was a note saying the greatcoat would be ready later today and would be delivered by evening. Yet another day that Julien could not go out, another day wasted.

All I could do was leave his things where they were and knock on his door. I entered as soon as I was permitted. Julien was sitting by the window again, watching and seemingly waiting for something.

"And what is it you want of me now?" he asked, turning towards me.

"I came to say that some of your clothes have been delivered and I thought you might like to get dressed properly."

"And you could not send one of the staff to tell me this?"

"I wanted to tell you myself. And to apologise for yesterday. I don't know why I did it, and I'm terribly sorry."

"I had thought you would have grown out of such nonsense."

"I had thought so, too. Apparently, we were both wrong. It won't happen again."

"I should hope it would not. Though I have not seen anything so ludicrous in some time." A smile seemed to flash across his lips without staying.

"I was a fool. I must have looked it, too. Lucie was laughing at me, was she not?"

"Of course. The singular way in which you landed across the doorstep could inspire no other reaction." He did not smile again, but there was laughter in his eyes.

"I'll have someone bring up your clothes."

"You may as well bring them yourself. I do not like arguing with you, Charles. It makes us very petty, indeed, and I take no joy in it." It was as close to an apology as I could expect. I should have expected nothing - it was almost entirely on my side.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why it happened. I don't want to fight you; it just seems to happen. I - I'll be back with your clothes." I left the room before I said something more I might regret. Apologies are more difficult than arguments. They must be worded so carefully. I returned with a set of clothes as quickly as possible. "They are going to send the overcoat tonight, as soon as it is finished. Once you're dressed, I'll have someone come in and put everything right in here."

He nodded. "Charles? Thank you." And then he turned away again. I had been dismissed. I left him to himself, going back to the study and fiddling around with papers more than working. Julien appeared a few minutes later. For a moment, he almost looked like himself again. Impeccably dressed, standing tall, though nothing would ever hide his twisted cheek or eliminate the awkwardness of his movement on an ill-set leg.

I smiled. "You look infinitely better. I assume you'll come down for dinner?"

"Of course. I came to tell you that I think I will take a walk in the garden. I will not be out long, but I want to feel the wind. You need not worry. I simply did not wish you to find an empty room." He turned and walked back out without another word, his face still expressionless. I did not argue. It was best to let him do as he wished. He had promised dinner together. It would still be awkward and quiet, but it was a start.

Or so I thought until dinner. When Julien came and sat down, I could tell something was wrong. The bitter March winds had worn some redness into his pale face, making an improvement in his colour, but his eyes were darker. He was angry about something.

"What did you tell Mlle Lucie of me?"

"What?" At that point, I had actually forgotten how much of an ass I had been.

"What did you tell Mlle Lucie of my crimes?"

And then I remembered. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. "Only the barest truth," I responded quietly.

"Murder and treason? Is that how you see what I did?"

"I was angry. I should never have said anything."

"You should have held your tongue. I have put it in those exact terms many times myself, and it still does not explain those sixteen years of hell and death. Since you cannot understand, and you are not of the judiciary, you have no right to judge me."

"You're right, I don't." I do not think he expected me to admit it. "I don't have the right to assume anything about what you did or what they did. Nothing makes the least bit of sense anymore, so far be it for me to try to make sense of it."

"Do not engage in sarcasm. Why did you say it? You scared her. She is an uneducated young woman who is inclined to believe all her superiors tell her. I am more concerned with how it left her than that you think it the truth."

"I don't know," I replied sullenly.

"You do know. It is the sort of thing a jealous lover would say, painting any faults in the worst light possible."

"Fine, you want the truth? I was jealous. You go to her instead of to me. Don't tell me you've forgotten that you taught me to read from La Fontaine. I couldn't watch that keep happening. Is nothing of the past sacred to you? Not this house, not our book, not the government, not even God. Have you no respect for anything!"

"I have a great deal of respect for what is good in the past. And of course I remember how we would read La Fontaine. You were five years old, and I was sixteen, and you would crawl into my lap and help me hold the book and we would read together, each taking a different page. And I would purposely make mistakes so you could feel we were on a level, that you were helping me as much as I was helping you." It was true. Julien would make mistakes simple enough for me to correct him. I had forgotten it until he brought it back to the forefront of my memory. "You know my religion and my political beliefs. They are in direct conflict with yours. But that does not mean I have no respect for the past. This house was not home to me. Marseilles was home, the salt air and the smell of peach blossoms in the spring, and sailing out of sight of land so it was just me and Henri and the sea and the stars. This house was a temporary lodging house. I was here for Christmas and nothing more. And Christmas was rarely happy. It always seemed so forced. In Marseilles, if we were going to fight, we fought. We did not make excuses. Life was real, not a façade. And it was not in this library we spent most of our time. It was in the nursery at home, with the clear, unadulterated light and pure air. That is what I remember. It is those memories for which I have the greatest respect. We are not the same people. We grew up in different worlds - yours was the more sheltered because of the mistakes our parents felt I made. But we do share some things. Do not make mock of them because you think me incapable of understanding, incapable of emotion."

I was immediately ashamed. Everything he said was correct. "Let's say no more of it. I'm sorry. We should let it go at that."

Julien nodded, and we began to eat. Dinner was not silent, as it had been, but it was difficult. It was a relief to part at the end of the meal. Only after many more meals together did we begin to talk without fear of argument. The relief was tangible. We had not been able to speak without repressed anger in twenty years.


	4. Chapter 4

As the days went by, things became better. The tension relaxed somewhat, though it never really left. It was as if we had reached a truce rather than ended the war. Julien forced himself to do such work as I would allow, for he soon tired of taking long walks and forcing himself to recover his health. He acknowledged the necessity, but it bored him exceedingly, for it used none of his mind and all of his body. I wrote Hélène for the first time since I arrived in Paris, to tell her that things were progressing and not to worry.

I was shocked the first time he voluntarily touched me. I was in the library, again, like a fool, staring at the portrait and thinking to it instead of talking to him. I did not hear the door open, but suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned and saw him, looking at me sympathetically, I breathed a sigh of relief. My first reaction was that Sebastien had been allowed in.

"I did not expect to see you here."

"I came looking for some of my books." He looked up at the portrait. "You should really take that down. I am surprised you even have it."

"Adèle Feuilly brought it a few days after the barricade fell. By that point, the lawyers had found her and she didn't know how to legally refuse the money, so she gave us most of her husband's work. A sale of his effects, I suppose. We kept a few pieces and sold the rest. Father put this one up immediately. I couldn't bring myself to take it down."

"You do realise it is only a painting."

"Of course. But for nearly sixteen years, it has been all we've had of you. Whenever things became too much, I'd come home and talk to Father and think about what you might say, and it helped. And the things I couldn't tell Father, I'd tell you, or as close I could to you, anyway. None of us was ever as strong as you were, Julien. It was impossible to live without you."

"You think far too much of me. That has always been nothing more than a painting, and not even Feuilly's best work at that, and I am hardly the person you remember.

"I don't believe that. A few years older, yes, but certainly still the same." I cut him off as he tried to interrupt. "Don't argue until you hear my case, Julien. M. Radet was so impressed by you. The calendar, your coherence, your ability to still move about. He saw the others. The way he spoke of you, it was as if you were the only whole man left in there. And of course that was my brother. If you were not you, I think you would be in bed, a permanent invalid. Only you would have kept hope that you would not die in that place and made it possible for you to leave there."

"Don't speak of what you don't know," he replied sharply. "Sit down." I did as he ordered. "Forgive me if I am not as _strong_ as you seem to think." He started pacing, always seeming surprised when he could go more than a few steps without having to turn around. From time to time, he would run his good hand through his hair nervously.

"The first thing I remember clearly was waking up, hot, terribly thirsty, and in a great deal of pain, tied to a very hard bed. The prison infirmary. The doctor of sorts was the last decent man I saw until M. Radet came to my cell. He was not allowed to untie me, but he gave me water, and such food as I could stand, and he was kind enough to loosen my bonds as much as was allowed. Yet I was foolish enough to think I wanted out of there, and so I forced myself to appear far more recovered than I was. As soon as I could shakily stand on my own and take the few steps necessary to cross the room, they took me away and put me with the rest of the prisoners. Most were not from the insurrection. I found a few others like myself, but we were never allowed to speak, for if the guards saw us even next to each other, we suffered terrible beatings. It was hell. The others soon discovered that I was wealthy and in a weakened state. Had it only been beatings, I think I could have learned to bear it. What was impssible was the - the -" he almost could not say it. Pacing faster and faster, he finally forced out, "The other violence.

"Sometimes it would go on every day for days, and I would be flat on my stomach for a week because of the pain and bleeding."

"I don't understand."

"Think! Use your head for once, Charles!" Julien snapped at me.

"Julien," I protested.

"What I am certain you enjoyed so much with your Sebastien," he replied bitterly.

I had never even considered it. Rape? Dear god, it could be painful enough when you were overexcited and inexperienced and doing it with consent. I had certainly been a little rough before in desperation. For it to have been forced - of course I knew what he meant by scars I would never see. I was absolutely certain they were physical as well as deep inside himself. "Julien, I'm so sorry."

"Of course you are. What was worse was the way the guards sought to blame me for every fight - usually fights over whose turn it was with me. So I would be beaten by my tormentors, then beaten again by the guards.

"Then one day, someone had the idea I might know something. I was taken away. They let my bruises heal. And then they brought out a razor and cut me every time I answered a question in a way they did not like. After three days, they either tired of the sport or were satisfied that I knew nothing. I do not even remember the questions, just the way that razor would shine in the light. And so I was thrown back, weakened even further. Each time I was allowed in there, I willed myself to die. This went on for years. They would not let me go to the infirmary unless they thought I would die. It was only when I realised it was 1836 that I knew they could not kill me. If I could not die in those four years of hell, I was not fated to die in there. Survival, at the very least, had to begin again.

"It never got better. The beatings continued. Finally, when I was forced to spend a month in the infirmary with this broken leg and no one knows what injured inside, someone decided they were tired of dealing with me and the disruptions they attributed to me, so I found myself released to the solitary cells below ground. At least there, the - the - _rape_ - stopped. The guards were still harsh - so many of them were no longer men, but monsters. The one who stepped on my hand laughed as he refused me permission to have it set in the infirmary. But as the years went by, the staff changed, and those who did not know what I had done did not concern themselves with me. That is how you found me only with scars and without fresh wounds.

"Man is the most adaptable of creatures, and he can grow accustomed to nearly anything. What else explains the slavery of the negro or the acceptance the Romans had for becoming slaves themselves? But I do not believe man can grow accustomed to constant pain. I know I cannot. There is no such thing as constant pain - it ebbs and flows like the sea, only hardly so predictably. One must do something. Either one goes mad or one turns inward - I hardly know the difference, as there are many forms of madness. I have gone through every book I ever read, written thousands of treatises in mymind, deciphered the length of days in the dark, anything to keep the pain at the back of my mind. Leonardo da Vinci must have been prisoner to something to be so prolific." Out of nowhere, Julien switched into German - my brain struggled to follow. "I practised German; I practised English. I likely speak better now than when I went into that place. German was the most difficult language in which I had the vocabulary to say anything at all. What you call my _strength_," he spit out, "was only to cover my weakness."

I thought I caught a slight change in the strength of his voice. Not once had he looked at me, not even when he had shouted directly at me. Always he kept up his rapid pacing, never so I could see his face. "Julien?" I asked softly.

He stopped, facing away from me. I could see that he was shaking, hugging himself tightly, desperately trying to stop. He was wrong when he said he wasn't strong. Even after this confession, he was still trying to protect me.

I came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, it seemed, but he did not pull away. "Julien," I told him softly, "it's over." I moved around in front of him, and he did not move away. He was still shaking, his eyes on the ground, afraid and full of tears. "It's all over, I promise." He met my eyes and nearly collapsed. I grabbed him to keep him from falling, and he held onto me, looking down again, the tears spilling down his thin cheeks. At that point, I think I forgot it was Julien. It was just as the times Mathieu would cry. Hélène had no patience and would pass him off to the nanny. I could never bear to see his tears and would do all I could myself to fix whatever was wrong. I took Julien in my arms, and he did not resist, finally letting go of his last defences and sobbing into my shoulder.

We stood there forever, and I could not help thinking how wrong it was that I should be the recipient of his tears. He should have had a wife to hold him all night and dry his tears and show him the tenderness he needed all those years. I was hardly qualified to hold him close and stroke his hair. But I was the only one.

When I could feel his sobs subsiding, I helped him to the sofa. Not once did we let go of each other. I could tell Julien was trying to get hold of himself again.

After a long time, he tried to smile. "How does it feel to be the older brother?"

I shook my head. "Never. How many times have you done more for me? Even through the anger and shame, I was the one who left, never you. Do you remember that night?" I could certainly never forget that night.

"The night you showed up at my flat and I was certain you would be caught having snuck out of the dormitory?"

"And I couldn't say for the longest time what had brought me there."

"You were there for an hour without saying anything with any meaning. I could not think what you could possibly have hit upon at that time of night that could not wait until the next time we saw each other."

"I almost didn't tell you."

"I know. I never meant to be angry, but you were so young. I did not see how you could know such a thing about yourself with such certainty. I never understood how you did not walk out until nearly morning."

"You were right, and I knew it, and I was so scared. And you let me beg and scream and cry. I never really hated you. I was just jealous of how you had everything figured out." It took me ten years to realise that, but I was not ready to admit that much to him. It did not matter, anyway. All that mattered was that I did grow up after all.

"I never knew anything. Witness the number of men I lured to their deaths."

"They went with you voluntarily. They wanted whatever it was as much as you did."

"I tried to convince Feuilly to leave. He wouldn't. We captured some uniforms. He could have left safely, but he refused to go, saying others were far more necessary. A four year old daughter. I wish I knew what had happened to them. She's probably married by now."

"As you should be."

"What?" I had taken him completely by surprise.

"Just what I said. Just now, you didn't need me, you needed a woman, someone sweet and soft who understood what you had done and why you had left her, who was still waiting for you all these years and could kiss the tears away to make everything all right again."

"Hardly." I could not tell if he was hardening up again or trying to laugh at me. "All I need is some time, and perhaps a friend."

"Why did you never marry? I know perfectly well why you did not marry Isabelle Laurier, but why was there never someone else?"

"Because I never fell in love. It is a simple explanation, really."

"You must be joking. You were twenty-six years old - how could you not have ever had someone?"

"You know what happened with Henri." Of course I still remembered the murder. Henri Enjolras had been interesting, even to my seven year old mind, and that girl he was always with was killed one night. The gossip was endless, Julien came home and took him to Paris, and the excitement died down again. "It was simpler never to develop an attachment to any woman. We had too much work to do, in any case. Distractions were hardly welcome."

"The same excuse as when I was flirting badly with Enjolras, then? The revolution as your mistress?"

"Who else?" Julien actually smiled. Not the same as he used to, tight-lipped to cover his broken teeth, but a smile nonetheless.

"We should go home. Marseilles is warmer, there's more sun, and I think being out of Paris for a time will do you good."

He immediately grew serious again. "I have intruded far more than I should have, Charles. Your wife will not like this at all."

"Nonsense. She knows you exist. It is only right that you come home."

"I will frighten your children. Some things cannot simply go away. I will always look like Frankenstein's monster to them." Strange how he had hit upon the same description of himself.

"Hardly. Mathieu is four years old, but more curious about everything than afraid of anything. As for Julie, I don't think she'll know to be afraid. Please come home."

"I am still in no condition to meet your wife. No matter what you say, it will be a long time before the stench of the gaol is off me."

"Please?"

"I need more time, Charles. You must let me do what I must. Go home if your wife needs you. You have a full staff here to look after me, if that is what worries you."

"Hélène is probably relieved that I am gone."

"Is your wife as terrible as Mlle Laurier was?"

"Hardly," I was forced to admit.

"Your marriage is only as poor as you make it. Go home."

"Come with me."

"Your wife is a noble woman to have covered your collective shame with the birth of a daughter. See her. See your children. Work. Go about your life. I will come when I am ready. A gentleman presents himself, not a shadow of himself. I despise platitudes, but here I can find no other words. As Rome was not built in a day, a ruined house needs time and patience and skill to become a home again. If I need a year, will you give it me?"

I sighed, resigned. "Of course. Whatever is necessary to make you well."

"Then we will speak no more of Marseilles. I will tell you when I am ready."

Julien had been home a little more than a month when a letter arrived for him. It was strange to see that familiar handwriting on a piece of paper addressed to my brother. Even more strange was that it came through the post - Sebastien had never been one to use the post if he could find a personal messenger. It was quite obvious at that point that he had no wish to see me.

As he read the letter, which proved little more than a note, I caught a familiar furrowing of his brow. Whatever it said called for serious contemplation. After what seemed an eternity, Julien carefully folded the note and set it aside. "I will be going out on Thursday night," he announced, as he went back to the papers he had been reviewing. The off-hand manner with which he made this announcement was a poor ending to such a display of thought.

"Going out?" I am certain I sounded quite an imbecile, for it took me completely by surprise.

"I have been invited to a political meeting."

"By whom?" Julien did not know anyone who might invite him to a political meeting - they were all dead. And the other answer was one I had no wish to hear.

He looked up and very deliberately held my eye. "Sebastien Ture."

Precisely the answer I had hoped to be false. "He has no business being involved with that nonsense."

Julien immediately went back to his files and the task of familiarising himself with the family business. "It is not nonsense, and it never has been, Charles. As well, his business, and my business, are not your concern. I am going out on Thursday night, which should be enough for you."

"I'm going with you." Yes, I know now how stupid I was to have volunteered, threatened, whatever the proper verb for voicing that intention was, but I was not about to let my brother and my former lover become friends.

It certainly returned his attention to the topic at hand. "Do not be childish. You do not share the opinions that will be voiced, and you with either be angered in the extreme or bored half to death. If you do not want to make of yourself another Pontmercy, I suggest you stay at home or find another way to amuse yourself."

"I'm going." Not that I understood his reference at the time, but I was not going to admit my ignorance.

Julien sighed, as if he were dealing with an unruly and very stubborn child. "Very well. But do not make a fool of yourself, for it will reflect poorly on the entire family." He was still obsessed with pride, and continued to claim he had nothing in common with our mother.

"Fine." I returned to my explanation of the organisation of decision-making processes within the company. It was rather late that he take an interest, but I supposed it had more to do with the accessibility of the information than any new-found love for the enterprise that controlled our family's fortunes. He was still reluctant to venture outside the neighbourhood, prefering to walk in the gardens in the square or up and down the mews behind the houses rather than be seen by greater numbers of people. To go in search of subjects for study would have meant exposing himself to conversations and perhaps stares at a bookshop, and to go further in search of sun would have necessitated the scattered but numerous groups flocking to the Luxembourg as the weather improved. It was now the middle of April, and traditionally, the gardens were always full. Either pride or vanity, or perhaps a new reticence kept him in the relative safety of the house, where the staff and I had grown accustomed to his scarred face, slight limp, and reluctance to speak when every "s" sound whistled through his teeth. Sebastien had done well to lure him out with a political meeting. I had been trying to force him to venture further for a couple of weeks, to no avail.

The rest of the week passed with no more discussion of the subject. Julien absolutely refused conversation on that particular point. Thus I found myself, on Thursday evening, approaching a café in the student quarter, following Julien almost as if I were fifteen again and he was reluctantly letting his annoying and tactless little brother tag along. As we reached the door, Julien reached out and stroked the wood of the doorframe, a half-smile on his face, but with a look of infinite pain in his eyes. Just as I was about to ask what was wrong, he took a deep breath and opened the door quickly. There, in the brightly lit back room, was a collection of young men, all certainly younger than I and nearly a generation away from Julien. I recognised M. Radet from the prison, though he did not speak to me. Julien was of far more interest, for obvious reasons, and I was content to watch what might happen. I looked around for Sebastien and finally found him, his face buried in a newspaper but the lamplight shining on his golden hair.

It was Radet who seemed to be in charge, or at least taking charge of Julien. I retreated to a corner, prefering not to be noticed too much and asked about my presence, for I would never have been able to plausibly express an interest I did not have or a sentiment I did not feel. I found myself behind Sebastien, who looked up from his newspaper long enough to glare at me as I went past. His hair was pulled tightly back again, as it always had been when he was working. A stray strand had fallen out, however, and he could not prevent his glare from seeming charming nonetheless.

I had tried to disrupt a few of Julien's meetings, but I was never successful in assertaining precisely what they were about or even what his position was. The latter part quickly became obvious, as Julien seemed to grow ten feet as soon as it was proved that his audience had not assembled to witness a freak show.

I should start from the beginning, but many of the details went over my head. I did not understand a word of their political discussions, and what I did understand I did not much like, but it was a pleasure to hear Julien's low, impassioned voice carry through the room. He had forgotten that he preferred not to speak; he had forgotten that he had become bitter. I do not think I ever understood that behind the fire in Enjolras that so attracted me, my brother had been the true leader. Julien did not have to speak loudly in order for people to listen to him - they just naturally did. But again, I get ahead of myself.

M. Radet introduced everyone, though I have forgotten the names. Julien was nervous at the introductions, though Sébastien set his newspaper aside partway through to take a place next to him, as if he were the friend to ease the transition. One of the young men was anxious to show off his own wound from the barricades, a barely healed bullet wound in the shoulder. Julien seemed amused by the attempt to empathise with someone as battered as he. There was some chatter that washed over me, and then someone asked Julien his opinion of the revolution.

His eyes darkened immediately, and furrowing his brow, he focussed on the far wall as he tried to think what to say. "You are all so young, so hopeful. I see how old I have become. You are so lucky to have won your first try. Nothing has yet happened to cloud your idealism. I have never been more proud to be French than I am tonight, sitting among the best people in the world, knowing we are brothers in thought and deed. But I am sure some of you have already seen that the most difficult struggle is ahead of us. M. Radet has already seen things he could not have known existed, even as he was fighting against them. M. Ture knows the bourgeois intimately, and he will be able to tell you what motives they have to block progress." Sebastien coloured as Julien mentioned his name, but he looked pleased nonetheless. "I do not know how to help you. My experience has been in defeat, not in success. But I do know from my own failures how difficult your success will be. Look at how young all of you are. I suspect none of you remember what happened in '30. You must be on your guard against a repeat of '30. There are powerful interests that you have not destroyed. You have done away with an old-fashioned, corrupt, impossible government, and you have ever right to congratulate yourselves on this achievement. But there is more. We succeeded in doing just that in '30 as well. We won. And then we lost on the same day. It was not that we were foolish to support Lafayette. Had we supported another, we would have ended up in the same place, under Louis-Philippe and the idea of a constitutional monarchy. Louis-Philippe had the support of powerful interests who preferred a monarch, even one somewhat chained, because a single person is easier to influence."

And suddenly my brother the idealist began lecturing about power. About the desire of business interests to have power and maintain power. I cannot put it as well as he did, but the boys around him listened wide-eyed, as if they had not even thought that there were important people who would like to be rid of their nonsense. It was to be expected from schoolboys. Sebastien had moved away and returned to his newspaper - after all, he did know better. He was always pragmatic - it was why he had been with me as was necessary rather than any attempt at a more equal relationship or a rather higher professional goal. My brother had never struck me as being pragmatic, however. Julien was always involved in the most absurd situations, caused by his insane beliefs that the social hierarchy rarely corresponded with his idea of a natural hierarchy, and thus his causes and his friends were perfectly appropriate. It was far easier to claim that he was an inveterate optimist than to give any credence to his nonsense. Yet the way he spoke, the ideas must have occurred to him before his imprisonment. It sounded like some scholarly work that he had read at some time, and yet it could not have been because no scholars write about what is happening at the moment. Julien could have been great, if only he had known how to use the power with which he held those boys. Even then, he could have been something. No, he was something - it was just something that was impossible to identify.

"What are you doing here?" a low and angry voice interrupted my thoughts. Sebastien had moved next to me without me noticing.

I turned towards him. His expression was not quite anger, but it was greater than disapproval. "Keeping an eye on my brother."

"You were not invited here. He is not an invalid nor an imbecile, thus he has no need of a keeper."

"How can you be so angry with me? I've done nothing against you. You are the one acknowledging acquaintance with me - M. Radet is the only one I have ever seen before, except for you. It is not as if anyone here knows anything, thus it is as you wish."

"It is known that I know you, but not quite how well. Some explanation for knowing your brother was necessary. The truth - that you and I were at school together and do not get on well, but that the same is true of you and your brother for similar reasons. I would appreciate if you do not keep coming here, even if your brother does."

"I cannot believe you are actually involved in this nonsense. I thought you were more pragmatic than that."

"And I cannot believe you are so judgmental. What do you see when you look at him?"

"I don't understand what you are after."

"Tell me. What do you think when you look at your brother right now."

Julien had ceased to lecture and had entered a proper conversation, answering questions and responding to points made by others. "My brother is a genius, and he could have been a great man had he been rather more pragmatic from the start. Nonetheless, I am still proud of him, to be related to him. He has more sense than I initially thought."

"And what do you think of them?"

"They are ignorant children, and you debase yourself by associating with them. How Julien can have such patience with them, I will never understand."

"You see nothing. You wish to believe idealism comes from ignorance, not from knowledge. You refuse to believe that hope can exist. Of course, this is hardly a surprise to me. You have never believed in any future, either good or bad, so how can you judge those who do? You call them fools, because they do not agree with you. Is everyone who does not agree with you a fool, in that case? You set yourself up in a most difficult position, for I cannot even begin to count the number of inanities that have issued from your lips. Is every intelligent man then a fool, because he contradicts you?"

"Do not be childish. I did not come here to argue."

"Then do not be hypocritical, because you had no other cause for coming to this place. You do not agree with us. You sit here in the corner and listen in perplexity and wonder what could possibly make men believe something that to you seems infinitely stupid." I had no answer because he knew me too well. "You have no desire to understand them. Look at Radet. His father served Napoleon. The restoration was hard on the family, and by the time Gilles was born, they were of no importance and no wealth. He wanted to be a lawyer, but there was no money for university. A law clerk in Paris, however, with many years experience, can go to the provinces and practise law on his own there. Ambition is not driven out of men by changes in fortune. He is intelligent, and in spite of what you might think, eminently pragmatic. He never intended to be a leader of men, but he does it because he knows it must be done. He is hardly the only one with broken dreams, as I am certain you are well aware." The accusation in his voice told me that he tried to link my dreams with the impossible ones of a poor man. I began to protest, but he interrupted me. "Don't speak until you have finished listening. You do not know what to think of your brother. He is older than you are, and you always looked up to him. It is difficult for you that you never agreed on anything because you wanted his brains and his drive and his ability to say no when an act could cost him his ambition. You envy his strength. And at the same time, you refuse to understand him because you have never put yourself in another person's position. You refuse to understand me, to understand why I left you, because you never stopped to think what I might be thinking and feeling. I don't like to call you selfish, because I don't think you are. It is never a deliberate thought process with you, simply a failure to realise that other people exist in the same plane that you do. Self-absorbed, but not selfish." Sebastien was not angry, simply reasonable, which annoyed me considerably.

"You say I am a hypocrite, but what of you? Your friends, as you call them, are speaking, and you sit and read a newspaper!"

He was calm. He would not be provoked. And then he smiled at me. "Sometimes one has to keep up appearances." He recited back to me much of what I had thought he ignored, until I stopped him. "Stay away from here, please. These are my people, not yours, even if you are unwilling to believe I should belong here. You'll only make an ass of yourself if you keep coming." Before I could reply, he went back to the group, having retrieved a bottle of wine from another table on the way, and began to change the tone of conversation to something rather less sombre.

I was relieved when Julien stood and took his leave of them soon after. I found myself outside even before he did, for his goodbyes of necessity were somewhat lengthy. He started off without a word, letting me catch up to him, not speaking until we were a few streets away.

"You need not follow me here again. I daresay you were rather bored tonight, though I thank you for not opening your mouth and letting imbecilities spill forth."

"You're going back, then."

"I may. I shall have to think about it. It was very kind of M. Ture to have asked me."

"It was, wasn't it?" I knew I could not keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but somehow it did not stop me from speaking.

"Yes, it was," Julien replied firmly. "Do not be childish, Charles."

"He probably fancies you."

"Then may it serve him better than your feelings towards Enjolras ever served you. Let us not discuss this nonsense further."

It was in sullen silence that I unlocked the door to the house and went to bed. Damn them both for what they were trying to do to me.

It was only three days after the meeting, surely no more than four, when Thérèse interrupted us in the study, bringing a card on the silver tray. I was surprised that I had not heard the door, though the explanation is likely the concentration I had on the files before me. It was hardly an easy task to bring Julien into the business, and as much as I disliked the necessity, it was rightfully his and he did take an interest in the workings. The daily lessons were necessary. Thérèse delivered the card to Julien, not to me, and waited for instructions.

He groaned as soon as he saw the name. "Dear god, why is it he, of all people? It is terribly unlikely, but no one else would have these inane calling cards. What did the gentleman look like?"

"A well-dressed gentleman, monsieur. Dark hair, curly, a bit fat, not as handsome as he probably still thinks himself." She coloured as she realised she had given an opinion that was not requested and not flattering.

"It is probably he. Why on earth should he still be alive? Where have you put him?"

"He is waiting in the library for the moment, monsieur. Are you at home?"

"I am at home, but I am rather busy. Tell him that I am concluding a meeting, but I will see him if he cares to wait." Julien had always hated most social conventions, but the way he gave the orders was so natural that one would not have thought he had been away for a day.

"Yes, monsieur."

When she departed, I left my chair behind the desk and came nearer to Julien's seat on the sofa, before the fire. "Who is this caller?" I asked carefully, trying not to bare my curiosity too much. He handed me the card. It was not new, and not terribly expensive, either. Age had somewhat yellowed it, and the best cards were not quite as plain and rather heavier. The script in the centre read simply "The Baron Marius Pontmercy." A baron? I voiced my skepticism aloud.

"Hardly, but he thought himself a baron. In truth, a Bonapartist who came to our barricade for I am not certain what reason. He was a foolish and naïve boy who most of the time seemed younger than his years. Yet he did save our lives by his fortunate arrival, fashionably late, and that is the only reason I shall see him now. He was too foolish and distrusting of the monarchy to have been a spy, so his life must have been spared by whatever chance of fate spared mine. A dreamer, always mooning about some girl, and completely deaf to sense. But he is alive, and it appears he has found me."

Thérèse reappeared at that moment. "He says he will wait, monsieur." She curtsied and left.

I took up the thread of conversation. "So a false baron whom you knew sixteen years ago has discovered my address. I am not at all certain I like your friend."

"He was never my friend. An associate at best, I assure you. Courfeyrac made friends with him, but I found nothing redeeming in the boy. He had one of those faces that was too innocent for his own good, and an intellect to match. What was it?" He thought for a bit. "Ah yes, Molière. It was childish of me, but I adapted Molière at him. He was never very good in a debate, and when he ran out of words to counter my arguments, a childish bit of cleverness slipped out. 'If great Caesar offered me / Glory and war / And if it were necessary that I leave / The love of my mother / I would say to great Caesar / "Take back your scepter and your chariot. / I love my mother more/ Alas, I love my mother more."' I do not believe he understood me, but he certainly understood that he had no more words to continue the argument. If the glory of the leader was more important to him than his own freedom, I could never make him feel otherwise. I never liked him. But he is alive, and he is here, therefore I must see him. I daresay your questions will be answered swiftly, especially if you pose them yourself. I prefer not to be alone with him. How long shall I keep him waiting?"

"As long as you like, I suppose. You wish me present?"

"I have no desire to be alone with Marius Pontmercy. A terrible name for the boy to have been saddled with, I must confess. There is nothing of the Roman general about him at all. Yes, I wish you to be present for the interview."

"You never wish me present for anything."

"The circumstances are rather different this time. I hoped you would not become like him. I do not know if you have or not, or even what he has become. You had more than your loves, I should hope. You did engage in the desires of the intellect as well?"

"Moreso than the desires of the heart, I believe. They were permitted, and thus easier to feed."

"Good. I always hoped you would prove yourself redeemable." Julien sighed. "I suppose we should complete the interview as quickly as possible, and then he will go away."

"I never thought you could hate anyone as much as you hated me."

"I do not hate you, I never hated you, and I do not hate Marius. I simply dislike those who do not use their brains to think for themselves. Marius was one of the worst because he did not understand he had no thoughts of his own except for those relating to his little mademoiselle. You did not think for yourself in everything, but you did in matters of far more importance than Marius ever did. Let us finish this business." He stopped in the hall to straighten his tie and check the condition of his shoes before we continued down the stairs to the library.

M. Pontmercy was examining the bookshelves when the noise of the opening door caused him to turn around with a guilty expression on his face, as if he had stolen something. Thérèse had given an apt description. His curly hair was still dark, his face pale, but he was not handsome. He might have been, once, before the latent bourgeois took over his appearance. His cheeks were far more round than was becoming, his stomach protruded as a testament to the large amount he paid his cook, and his fingers seemed thicker than they should have been. His age was difficult to discern, and only when I drew closer could I see the thin scar on his forehead disappearing into his hair. I did not like him, but for no reason. He seemed soft and perhaps unworthy of much praise.

"Marius," Julien greeted him, not entirely welcoming. "Sit down. Why is it you have come?" I was surprised to hear my brother address him in the familiar.

Pontmercy had difficulty taking his eyes off my brother, and it was a moment before he found his voice. "I was very glad to hear that you had escaped the barricade. I thought it would be a pleasant surprise to see that you were not alone."

"And how did you hear of my 'escape', as you call it?"

"The - the newspapers." A proper embarrassment came over him.

"I am in the newspapers. Charles, why did you not tell me? Jealous over my sudden fame or carefully protective of my health and shielding me from throngs of admirers? I appreciate your care."

"I have not once come across your name in the newspaper. I do not know what he thinks he is saying," I replied.

"I am famous, you say, Marius. Which newspaper? What edition?" Julien's voice was hard and mocking.

"Le Journal de la Liberté, last evening's edition. It was reported that you attended a political meeting," Pontmercy was finally able to squeeze out, acutely uncomfortable.

"Sixteen years imprisonment was hardly an 'escape'. I should have died, and the government agreed. Nevertheless, we are both here, and you deserve acknowledgement for your part in keeping me alive. You behaved honourably on the barricade, and though you should never have been there, your arrival bought us valuable time. I thank you for that, for it may have indeed saved my life. Now I must ask, what are you doing here?"

"It was a shock to see your name. I wanted to see if it were true. You don't know how hard it can be sometimes, having been the only one to live."

"I think I do know how hard it can be, and I have suffered far more from it than you have. So it seems from where I sit."

"Oh, do stop staring at him!" I felt forced to interject. Pontmercy had not once taken his eyes from Julien's scar once they found it.

"You needn't chastise him on my behalf, Charles," Julien gently reprimanded me. "It is difficult to look elsewhere, I am sure. It shall suffice as an example. You cannot see where I was actually wounded at the barricade. What you see came later. You were hit in the head, I remember, and I see that mark. It is faint and meaningless. You might have fallen from a tree as a child, or been thrown from a horse. You have suffered, perhaps, but only in yourself, and only by your own choice. We can choose to remember certain things, and I choose not to forget any of my struggles. The scars I bear are because I lived and because they feared me. We destroy what we fear, is that not so? But it is of no importance now. Two of us are alive, and free, and that simple fact means our struggle has not been entirely forgotten. How is it that you survived? I confess a certain curiosity."

"Cosette's father brought me out through the sewers." Julien looked puzzled, as if the simple explanation was not simply at all. "He came in the uniform and gave it so another could leave. He was my beloved Cosette's father, and he came to rescue me. Only to rescue me, not to fight our battle. That is why he would not shoot the officer on the rooftop."

"I remember him well. A good man. So you survived to marry his daughter. It is a happy marriage?" Julien seemed completely uninterested, but he tried to remain polite.

"Very happy. We have been blessed with seven children."

"It is quite a brood. How is it that you support them?"

"I practise a bit of law, but Cosette's father left her quite a fortune, and my grandfather left me a bit as well, so it is not necessary to worry how I will provide for them."

"Law, you say?" I threw in. "Is that how you discovered my address? For I am certain that information was not to be found in your newspaper."

"My brother poses an excellent question. You knew precisely where to find me. Does that mean you have reformed your ways and taken part in the revolution we have just witnessed?"

Pontmercy coloured again. The man was really quite weak. "I read the newspapers. I occasionally gave a bit of money. In memory, you understand, nothing more. It seemed a weak revolution. I have no taste for gunpowder and blood anymore. And I have a family to support. I did what I thought best."

"You are not involved in the government, then?"

"Not at all. It is a weak government, and it will not last."

"But you do nothing to strengthen it. Instead, you spend your time looking for Combeferres to torment in the hopes of finding me to satsify your own idle curiosity? Is that all you learned from what we did?"

"No." Pontmercy's voice grew a bit stronger. "I have a family, and the government is weak. I learned from what we did that it is a simple matter to sacrifice yourself when you have no noble reason to live, when it can still seem noble to die for a cause. But causes are weak, causes are fleeting, and why should seven children lose a father in order not to gain a single freedom? I supported the revolution with what means I could. You cannot fault me for refusing to make my children fatherless."

"When there are great things to be done, Marius, I can count on you not to understand them. You never looked past yourself. Your allegiance to Bonaparte made you a baron. I am not certain what your allegiance to us made you, but you had a reason for it. You were always the pampered bourgeois, even when you lived in poverty. The bourgeois is in his thought and his attitude, not in his money. You are complacent; you risk nothing. I am glad you do not dare to call me your friend, for you never have been. You were tolerated as Grantaire was tolerated, nothing more." Julien stood. "We are even, Marius. You have found what you wanted to know, and I have been able to thank you properly for your one great, selfless action. I am a busy man, as is my brother, and we have given you all of our time that we can spare. This is the end. I prefer not to see you again, unless it be in political company."

"You're going back to that?"

"Why not? Many things remain to be done. I am neither an invalid nor an imbecile, therefore I will accept my duty to the republic. I have already paid a great price for the privilege. As did you, even if you do not understand it. Good day, Marius."

I stood as well, but I did not know what to add to my brother's speech. Arguing in front of strangers is always ill-advised, and Pontmercy needed to see us as if we were of one mind. He could not argue as it was, and his mumbled goodbye was more apt than anything that had preceded it. I was glad to see him go. I dislike men who are weak in spirit.

Julien watched the door for quite some time after Pontmercy left. After what felt an eternity, he turned to me. "I need some air. Would you care to join me in the garden?"

I jumped at the invitation. His mood had seemed reflective, and I felt he wished to be alone, but if he preferred to speak with me, then I could hardly refuse him. I felt honoured, in a sense, though the word does not seem quite fitting. He was only my brother, after all, and not a man of state.

The afternoon finally showed some sun, though the wind brought more chill than usual for the middle of April. The garden was starting slowly due to the cold, but a few tulips made a brave show. Julien walked slowly, making a full turn along the wall before speaking to me. "I do not like weak men. Doubtless you thought you had heard the names of all my compatriots before, but Pontmercy was new to you. With good reason. I spent every minute with you that I could in the hope you would not grow up to become another like him. He contradicts himself and firmly believes in the propriety of his contradictions. 'My family is well taken care of by my wife's dowry and my inheritance.' Yet in the next breath, it is 'I cannot stand on a barricade because I must provide for my family.' Either one or the other would suffice, but I fear he firmly believes what he says. It is egotism, nothing more. Marius does not think beyond himself. One must think of oneself in order to act - if we do not believe ourselves to be just, then we cannot believe our actions to be just, and we must contemplate ourselves if we are to have an opinion of ourselves. A certain amount of egotism is hardly a fault. But neither is ignoring the great ideas that move civilisations. One can lose the individual, especially himself, in a great idea. I watched it consume Henri Enjolras. But it is eminently possible to accept both. What purpose does liberty have if there are no individuals? What purpose does liberty have if we never think for ourselves? Pontmercy came to us believing only in the greatness of Bonaparte. His father had fought for the Empire, and Bonaparte had made him a baron. Marius thus thought himself rightfully a baron, and he thought so little of himself that to be a baron was of the greatest importance. He was nothing without a title, or without money, and when he found himself out of funds, he avoided us all because he had no pride in who he truly was, just in how he appeared to the world. A weak man, as I said. He preferred the glory of association to the true happiness that comes with personal understanding. I do not think he ever understood what a little man Bonaparte was. How much he could have done for France, and how much he actually did only for himself. He may look glorious, but he was always a coward. He restored law and order, but then, instead of giving power to the people, he kept it for himself because he was always afraid of becoming less than he thought he had become. At least, that is how I see it. Bonaparte the general always had to fight a still greater battle because when a general stops fighting, he is only a man. It is sad that an intelligent man would choose to defend someone so weak, and in his image, become that weak himself." He turned to me. "I believe we do not agree in our politics, Charles, but I do not believe you are a weak man. I think you know what it is you do, and what you think is right, and it has nothing to do with your personal flaws."

I was quiet for a long time. Why did I think the revolution was such a mistake? Change. Worse still, upheaval. The world was peaceful, it was calm, it was growing more and more prosperous. And then these students came along and succeeded in deposing a king who harmed no one. He had been hemmed in with a constitution, unable to become a tyrant, and I suppose that that much had been right. Where is the image of the nation without the king? There is no nation, now that these students have destroyed authority. Even the Americans elect a king, of sorts. Good government can only function if there is one person who, when advisors are squabbling, can and will say "this is what we must do." My position of wealth changes only if it is forcibly taken from me. I have no influence, and I desire none. "I believe this revolution will be nothing more than a difficult and ultimately even more violent way of returning to where we were three months ago," I told him. "That is why I think it a mistake."

"And so, to spare everyone the pain of the coming decline and the destruction of their false hopes, you would prefer no one have tried anything at all."

"I suppose so. Economies go up and down, and in general, they are going up, so there's little point in quibbling with a government who keeps its nose out of business it does not understand. Any problems they now have will be entirely their fault. And I will suffer for them, too, because I cannot disregard any force of law and order, and if there is no order, then I suffer because of that. If they dream of democracy, they will soon have to re-think their position. Most people are not intelligent enough to know what is in the best interests of a nation, only what is in the interests of perhaps their family as the widest group. I would not know what the best interests of a nation as a whole are, so how can a man who can barely read be asked to choose which of two people best represents what the nation should be? It is preposterous. One well-educated person keeps it all in line, does what is best for everyone, and no one can say that they personally could do a better job because it is doubtful that they could."

Julien smiled at me. I had completely ridiculed his entire life, and he smiled at me as if he were a proud father and I his precocious child. "I always knew you had a head on your shoulders. Whether we agree or not, you think things through. Not always your words when you are angry, but you have good reasons for acting as you do. We do not have to agree for me to think you a much better man than Marius Pontmercy, who gives bits of money to a revolution he does not understand or believe in." He knelt in the grass and began idly digging in the flower bed with his fingers. "I do not know that we completely disagree. It would not surprise me in the least if this government were not strong enough to prevent a return to monarchy. And if that happens, I do not know that I would think you wrong to regret the false hopes given by those who must have known they were too weak to deserve the hope that rested in them. But how can we stop trying? You must agree that things as they are do not coincide with things as they should be. The gap is as wide as it has always been. The requirements seem so small. Enough money paid to workers that they can support their families, freeing their children to attend school long enough to learn to read, do more than just the simplest sums, and discover that they are a part of a great nation. How is it too much to ask?" He had unearthed a key, and he seemed pleased by it. He must have known it was there, just under the stone border that prevented the grass from straying into the flower bed. It could not have been there otherwise.

I started to ask what it was to, for it was a very small key, but I stopped myself. It was not my business, even if it was in my garden. He wiped it carefully on the grass, slipped it into his pocket, and dusted his hands. "We should return to work. There is still a great deal to learn."

I could not agree more, though my education was proving far different to his.

It was well into May when everything began to spiral out of control. Julien still would not go to Marseilles with me, and I was uncomfortable leaving him alone in Paris, so there we remained. He continued to attend political meetings twice a week, but I never joined him after the first. His mornings were spent in the Luxembourg; his afternoons in study. And then, without warning, the dam burst. I will never forget the day Sebastien showed up again at my door.

Around three in the afternoon, as I was continuing Julien's business education, Michel announced a visitor. "Monsieur Ture to see Monsieur Combeferre. The elder," he clarified, much to my surprise.

Julien was equally surprised. "To see me."

"Yes, monsieur. He is waiting in the library. Are you at home, monsieur?"

Still astonished, Julien replied, "Yes, yes, I am." I stood to join him, but he stopped me. "I do not need your constant presence, Charles. Go about your work. Please." He left before I could reply.

If that was how it was to be, fine. I felt I was forced to return to my old habit of listening at doors. Removing my shoes, I reached the door unseen just as Julien closed it behind him.

"Monsieur Ture."

"Monsieur Combeferre." I could hear the smile in Sebastien's voice. "You seem to be recovering at a remarkable speed."

"I thank you for your concern, but why have you come to see me here?" Julien's voice was confused.

"I thought it best not to disrupt them at the café. My reputation may not be the brightest among them, but I mean them no harm, and they deserve far more of your attention than I do. I do translations for a living, and the publishing house for whom I currently work is in the process of adapting an encyclopaedia. I thought certain of the articles I had been given might interest you, and now that I am finished, I have brought the originals." I could hear the rustling of paper. "Charles told me you were a great scholar, and there are a few lists of more recently published books at the end of many of these. I was not wrong in assuming you can read German and English, was I?"

"Of course not. You speak German, then," Julien switched into that language. "It was very kind of you to think of me, monsieur."

"Not at all. The way Charles speaks of you, it is impossible that you be far from my mind," Sebastien replied in the same language. "I fear the names in natural science have changed a great deal in the last generation, and I have included a report on the war in America that I felt may interest you."

"The war in America?"

"Yes. The Americans have just won territory from Mexico. The country now reaches from the Atlantic to the Pacific."

Switching back into French, Julien asked, "You do translations for a living?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You are an educated man."

"Yes, monsieur. I was at the Sorbonne at the same time as your brother."

"You have enough pride that you gave up perhaps everything your heart desired in order to be your own master?"

"I suppose that is why I left, yes."

"You fought on a barricade in a successful revolution?"

"Yes, monsieur, it is as I told you."

"Then why do you make your living translating the encyclopaedia? An acquaintance of mine did that when he could get no other work and was in desperate straits. He had been disowned by his family and turned out of the house. Having no skills and acquainted only with university students, he studied all day and translated all night. But you are hardly in the circumstance of reading for law on a penny a day."

"But I am my own master."

"Are you?" There was silence. "It is Charles, isn't it?" I heard more rustling of paper in the silence that followed. "You left for an excellent reason."

"I know. But reasons are not always comfort. Forgive me, I did not intend to burden you, a stranger, with my own problems."

"They concern my brother. Please, sit down. Let us talk." Talk? Let us talk? Dear god, I was so afraid of what might be said in that conversation. I almost burst in upon them. Sense stayed my hand, however.

"I love him," Sebastien said simply. "I know he can be selfish at times, but really, at heart he is a good man. You should see him with his children, monsieur. He loves them so much. He is a good man, a kind man, and it pains me to have left him. There is still so much of the artist in him, monsieur. Business has not killed it - if anything, the artistic temperament has become stronger in him since his marriage. But his flaws and mine are incompatible. All we ever do is argue anymore. There is apparently a difference between loving someone and living with him."

"Does he still love you?" Julien asked kindly.

"I don't know anymore. All he wants to do is argue. His selfishness is coming out again, very strongly. It's not 'How are you?', it's just 'Come back.'"

"You've finally seen to the bottom of him," Julien remarked dryly.

"I don't understand." I was certain from his tone that Sebastien was narrowing his eyes, though to defend me or to defend himself I was not sure.

"There is something you should see." There was silence for a long time before I heard Julien's voice again. "Ah, here is Richard," he said, using the English pronunciation. "Yes, it is still here." Silence again. I could not tell what they had.

After some time, I heard Sebastien's voice. "Who is he?"

"A friend of mine who died with me. His name was Henri Enjolras." Oh dear god, what had I done to deserve such punishment! Why did Sebastien have to hear my brother rant about how I used him only to replace an idol who had disappeared? It was not true. It could not have been true. I did not care what I might have admitted to him before; Julien had no right to say anything to Sebastien! As my mind was racing, I missed much of what was said. It was still Julien's voice - he must have been telling Sebastien about Enjolras.

"But we don't look like each other - not that much. Not as you and Charles do." Had he a drawing?

"To his mind, it was enough. Blond hair, blue eyes, delicate features - the general description is the same."

"He was with me out of adoration for another man?" Sebastien asked slowly.

"He has admitted as much."

"That goddamned cheap little bastard! I'm going to kill him. To lead me on for this long, when I'm nothing more than a doll to him! Some replacement for the one he can't fuck! How blind could I have been? Of course he was angry to hear I had been on a barricade - he thought his experiment went too far! I'm going to wring his goddamned little neck!"

"Calm down, monsieur, please. You could not have known."

"I should have known. He was always trying to fix me. 'You would look even more handsome with long hair. Grow it out for me,' and I listened to the little prick and was so in love that I did what he wanted. If he wants to fight, I'll give him something to fight about!" There was a resounding crash as something overturned, but soon the soft bump of it being righted again.

"Sit down," Julien commanded. "When Charles was a child, his wish was practically law in our house. Whatever Charles wanted, Charles was given. Henri was the first thing he couldn't have. The Beaux Arts was the second. It is entirely my fault Charles was never allowed to apply - I take full responsibility for my actions. Does he still draw?"

"All the time," Sebastien replied through clenched teeth.

"His second-best. He would never have stayed with you if he did not care for you. Charles could not have Henri. He knows full well that you are not Henri. I have known you for ten days and would never mistake you for him. I saw the resemblance immediately, and also the difference. He started with the body, but he stayed with the soul. Even had there been a mutual attraction, it would have dissolved with greater knowledge. They could never have been compatible. Charles can be childish, and extremely tiresome, but he does love you."

"How would you know?" Sebastien asked accusingly. "You've known him for two months!"

"I have known him all his life."

"Do you really think he never grew up? I was probably selfish at fifteen, too! But a man of thirty-one is nothing like the boy of fifteen!"

"You are defending him," Julien pointed out.

"And you! You tell me things wanting me to hate him, then tell me not to hate him!"

"It is by knowing the whole truth that we discover where our loyalties lie," he replied calmly.

"Fuck you, and fuck your sickening little brother!" Whatever had fallen before toppled again, and I made a hasty retreat to the room across the hall, just in time to hear the library door slam as I was putting my shoes back on.

I went out to see Sebastien's mood. His eyes were flashing fire, and his face was slightly flushed. "Hello, Sebastien."

"Fuck you," he replied angrily, stalking away. Suddenly he stopped and whirled around. "What the hell were you thinking? Did you really think I would just sit by and take it forever!" He gave a sharp laugh. "You don't even know what the hell I'm talking about! You bastard. To lead me on like that when all the time you were thinking of another man. I'm not some fucking doll, Charles! You hear that! I'm not your goddamned plaything! I'm a man. And will not be used and discarded as second best!"

I struggled to remain calm. "I don't know where you've gotten this idea, but you're wrong. I love you."

The pain in my jaw exploded like lightning. I never saw him strike me, but I hit my head on the wall behind me. "Don't you dare speak to me again. You have memories of your beloved Henri - that's more than a prick like you deserves. Rot in hell, Combeferre." He stalked out without another word.

I was so angry I could hardly see. I threw the door open and stared Julien in the face. "How could you? How could you tell him such a thing!"

He was perfectly calm, which only angered me further. "I only told him the truth."

"It was not your truth to tell!" I shouted. "You know nothing! Nothing! I loved him, and now he won't even look at me! And that is entirely your fault. He never needed to know I fancied Henri Enjolras. It doesn't matter. I know damned well they aren't the same person! How could you do this to me!" I was out of breath and my jaw hurt immensely.

"Are you finished?"

"Go to hell."

"That is what M. Ture told me to do. Listen to me, Charles. Both of you are living your lives in Limbo, in that special circle of hell reserved for perpetual waiting. Neither one of you will bend, but neither will you go forward with your lives. A break is not always a death."

"You know what? You're wrong. Julien Combeferre is not always right! Your idea of making it better has done nothing of the sort! I hope you're happy, killing the last bit of hope either of us had left."

"No, the last bit of hope you had left in that relationship. The break was necessary for both of you to move on and actually live your lives. Perpetual anticipation is a myth: it disintegrates into a memory of hope, but not the actual emotion. Do you really think I could bear to let you live your life in the manner I have? Did you honestly think that there could be any other resolution to this relationship? You will see, in time, that my actions were for the best."

I heard him, but I chose to ignore his words. "I never should have brought you back here."

"I will leave at once if that is what you wish."

Damn him! He was also so calm! Why wouldn't he shout at me? I would have given anything to have him raise his voice instead of put on that superior attitude. "How the fuck can you just stand there as if nothing happened! How can you pretend you didn't just overturn two people's lives, as if you were master of the fates! You've no feeling at all! Don't you ever interfere in my business again, do you here me! I am not your problem!" I stormed out, slamming the door behind me, and took refuge in the study.

On reflection now, when tempers have cooled and there is distance between me and the incident I relate above, I know he had a point. Sebastien and I were both killing ourselves slowly, waiting for the other to bend, and doing everything possible not to live our lives as they were. Forcing him against me, using a past weakness, a childish fancy, to provoke anger so great as to produce the equivalent of a firestorm was only one possible solution. It may have been cleansing, but it was never what was warranted.

I fumed, and then I cried, and then I gave up. It was the middle of May, and past time I should have returned home, so it seemed the best option. I gave the order to pack, and then went to break the news to Julien. It was rather coldly delivered, I thought, but it was even more coldly accepted.

"Very well. I shall stay here some time more, if I might be permitted."

"Stay as long as you like. May you be as unhappy here as you always have claimed."

"Thank you. It was for the best, Charles. One day, I hope you may understand that."

I restrained myself at that point, and instead of directing him to hell yet again, decided that perhaps a sullen silence was more to my benefit. I dined alone that evening, and the next morning, I started the journey home, still fuming.


	5. Chapter 5

Hélène professed to be glad to see me, though I believed the delight of the children far more. I told her as little as possible about Julien, not so much in anger as in the desire to protect her. I supposed she would have to see him soon enough, but for the time being, I felt it best to keep some of the horrors as far from her as possible. I spoke only of his physical weakness and desire to be alone. She agreed that he knew better than we could just when he might be ready to seek society. I did not tell her about his quiet but deliberate return to the activity that had put him in prison to begin with. As it was, I do not think she would have wanted to understand just what had put him there at all.

"He is welcome here, Charles," she told me one evening at dinner, about a week after I had returned. "Do not think that just because he has been in prison" - she said the word with such distaste - "that I would refuse to receive him. He is your brother, after all."

"He knows. He also understands our lives better than we can understand his, and he is not ready or willing to become a part of that. At least, not at the moment. How would one introduce him to our dinner guests? 'Yes, this is Charles' brother who tried to overthrow the government and was properly jailed for his treason until this latest bit of lunacy broke out.' I am certain that would be a pleasant scene."

"Charles, don't be like this. There is something far more the matter than you are willing to tell me. I should think you would know better than to believe your wife a fool."

"I don't believe you a fool. I simply do not think it possible to explain the family arguments that have been resurrected by his return."

"Your family is your own business, Charles, as they no longer exist, but I have never been unwilling to be more than a 'good show', so to speak, to preserve your reputation. Privacy has its place, but after certain events, there is very little I do not already know." Damn her for bringing up Sebastien.

"There is nothing to say. We argued. He will come when he is ready, which could be three days or three months. It would be wise to have a bedroom for him, I suppose, so that we may be prepared for his eventual appearance. If nothing else, the summer heat will drive him out of Paris and a lack of funds will bring him here."

"What is being done about his lack of funds, as you put it? What is to be done with us? He was still alive at your father's death, which means he is owed a piece of the estate, is he not? Unless his status as a convict has eliminated his right, but what would this government of rabble-rousers say if he chose to take us to court?"

"He would never consider it. That would be to make a fuss, and Julien does not make a fuss."

"And yet he built a barricade and shot at the king's soldiers. I think he went to prison because he made a fuss."

"This is different."

"How?" Her eyes had hardened. That look would not be pacified easily.

"For the moment, he is ill. His health is not good, owing to the conditions of the prison. The staff in Paris is looking after him. One of the maids has taken a liking to him, and he will be well-cared-for in his convalescence. When he has regained his health enough to travel, and when his pride determines that he may seek me out again, he will come here. Arrangements for his future will then be made according to his liking. At the worst, he will take up residence in the house in Paris and it will cost us only a few francs more a year in order to feed and clothe him in addition to the servants. Knowing Julien, however, he will find something to occupy himself that will also pay him something of a salary, and we will not be in the position of maintaining him as if he were a permanent invalid or a pathetic widow."

"I should hope the rabble-rousers could find some employment for an educated man who agrees with their nonsense."

"Perhaps they could," I answered noncommittally, not happy with the turn towards the accurate the conversation had taken.

"And if they do not? How did he expect to spend his life had these circumstances not come about? Does he wish to take part in the business? Will he expect to be maintained as a gentleman? We must have some idea of what is to become of him and of us."

"For god's sake, don't be melodramatic about it! What will happen is what will happen. Do you really think he could possibly want any of this?" I started laughing. "He went to prison because he wanted to bring this world, our world, to a crashing halt."

"Charles, you are hysterical," Hélène replied coldly.

"What of you? You pretend that Frankenstein's monster is worthy of being a guest in your home."

"Frankenstein's monster?"

"Yes, Victor Frankenstein resurrected a man -"

"I know the story, Charles. Why do you apply it to your brother? What is so dangerous about him that you refuse to tell me?" She looked just as she had when she confronted me after Sebastien's departure.

"He looks like Frankenstein's bloody monster. What do you want me to say?"

"The whole truth, Charles. I may be a woman, but I am not an imbecile. Someone has to keep this family together, since you prefer not to accept the task."

"Don't start with that bullshit."

"Must you be vulgar?"

"Fine. I am the head of this house."

"Then I would appreciate if you acted as if you were truly proud of that position and responsibility. We have children, Charles. Is there a reason you think it valid to call your brother Frankenstein's monster?" When she is angry, her jaw tightens as if it were a band of steel. It was so tight, I was certain it would break if she opened her mouth again.

"He wouldn't hurt a fly, Hélène." I tried to calm down. "I know he has killed men, in cold blood, but it's not the same. He's the same as I remember from when I was a child, and I was always perfectly safe with him. There's no reason to worry."

"Then why the comparison?" She did not seem at all pacified.

"Because he looks like Frankenstein's monster. The way the monster was stitched together from pieces of many other men, so that he appeared battered and scarred. That wasn't a face that was about to be readily accepted. And that monster was a genius of the first order, compassionate until frightened, and unable to understand his own strength. That is my brother. Only Julien isn't physically strong. It's more a moral strength, an intellectual strength, I don't know. You know it when you meet him that there is more there than just an ordinary man recovering from a long illness. He's a genius who has been pushed outside of society for so long that I am not certain he understands it. In that sense, he shares a great deal with the monster. But he is not at all violent."

It seemed to pacify her for the moment. "He is welcome here if he chooses to come. I simply hope his timing is not such that it causes us embarrassment. The Dutilleuls are coming to stay in three weeks. It would be truly unfortunate if he were to arrive while they are here."

"I believe, in his present state, he will not be seen in the vicinity until at least July."

"It is to be hoped you know him as well as you claim."

"You need not snipe at my every assertion, Hélène."

"I did not intend to 'snipe', as you put it. We have reached some resolution, have we not? That your brother is welcome in our home, though we hope he does not arrive while we have guests."

"Yes."

"Then it is settled, and you would do best not to chastise me for your own feelings on the subject. You have grown quite snappish of late."

I would have responded, but her tone and her look forced me into silence. It is better not to fight. She is always right, no matter what I say.

You were here when the news of the rebellion broke out. Surely you noticed I had a rather virulent reaction to the news. I hope what I have already written better explains my feelings than whatever forgotten excuses I gave at the time.

Not a quarter of an hour after your carriage pulled away, I thought I heard horses on the road. I called to Hélène, believing that your wife had forgotten something. But she told me it was not your carriage, and only then did I look out the window.

It stopped in front of the house. A girl was helped down first, but her bonnet hid her face, and then as the coachman helped the second passenger down, I understood. Julien had not written; he had simply come. He had hired a carriage in town, perhaps in the desire that I help him as little as possible. But he had come.

I went to Hélène's drawing room. She looked up at me, expectantly, and I could barely choke out, "It is Julien." She blanched at the news but slowly stood and brushed her skirt.

"I will order some cool drinks brought and meet him in the conservatory. He must be tired from the journey. The children should be kept away for the moment, I think."

"Where are they now?"

"Upstairs. I will send a note to the nurse that the visitor is a business acquaintance who does not take kindly to children. That should forestall immediate questions. 'Business' should be enough to dampen their curiosity."

I returned to the hall to meet him. He looked far more worn than I had expected, and Lucie clung protectively to his arm. A couple of satchels sat on the floor next to them. Both were dusty from the journey, though neither seemed to notice.

"I did not expect you."

"Please forgive me. Have you heard the news?"

"The insurrection?"

He nodded. "Our departure was made in haste; there was no time to write. I hope we do not put you out at all."

"Not at all. Of course you are welcome here, at any time you may wish. I simply thought that you would not come so soon after the way in which we parted."

"You thought I was on a barricade again."

"I did not know what to think. A room is prepared for you. I did not anticipate Lucie; we have just had guests, so the linens in her room will have to be changed. If you are determined to keep her as your personal servant, it is no concern of mine. She will have a room to herself and be generally treated as if she were your valet, if that satisfies both of you." He nodded in acquiescence. I motioned for a servant to take care of Lucie and the baggage. "There is no other baggage?"

"The streets were blocked, and we walked to the station," he replied slowly. "When - when peace is restored, I suppose I will send for the rest. What we have with us will suffice."

"Hélène would like to meet you. She is waiting in the conservatory."

"The conservatory?"

"A new addition onto the back. More accurately, I believe she is waiting on the terrace outside."

"I would like to make myself rather more presentable, if at all possible. What have you done with Lucie?"

"She should be waiting in your room, brushing out your clothes. Shall I show you myself?"

"A servant will suffice. I believe you wish to warn your wife about me."

"Julien -"

He held up his hand to stop me. "I do not take offense. She cannot want a gallows bird in her home. Therefore, she will want all possible warning so she might prepare that hypocrisy known as 'polite behaviour'. Go and make your warnings. I would be naïve not to expect them."

The maid who had taken charge of Lucie had just returned, so I confided Julien to her care, freeing myself to find Hélène. "He wishes to wash up a bit from the journey. I do not think he will be too long."

"Why is he here if they are so active?"

"You have been reading the newspaper."

"You forget that what occurs inside can often be heard through the windows. I heard your conversation with M. Dutilleul at breakfast yesterday."

"I do not know why he is here."

"How is he?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Do you really think you can taunt me with a description of Frankenstein's monster and then expect me to pretend that nothing is wrong?"

"He looks quite worn, but his colour is rather better. Perhaps he is a bit less skeletal. They did nearly starve him to death. He has a scar down the side of his face, here" - I traced it along her cheek - "and his left hand is rather disfigured. It was crushed and not properly set. His hair is rather grey, chiefly at the temples. He limps a bit, and the angle of that leg seems a bit off. Other than his injuries, he has the general air of a gentleman coming off a long illness. The journey, and perhaps the events prior to the journey, seems to have tired him. He has never seen a railroad before, and he has not been in a carriage at length in nearly twenty years. You need not treat him as if he were an imbecile or a beggar. His hearing is fine, but I do not know if his eyes have adjusted better to the light. They bothered him often when I left, but perhaps they required more time to adjust. This shade should be adequate, but he may squint a great deal. I do not know how self-conscious he will be. His teeth are chipped, therefore he whistles when he talks. It may still offend him; I do not know. If he is silent, you must not take offense."

"Thank you for your honesty." She looked back toward the window, as if trying to catch her reflection. "I do hope I look presentable."

"The only women he has seen have been the staff in Paris. If the dress is good enough for the Dutilleuls, it is good enough for my brother."

"How much longer, do you think?"

"I believe he wished to shave and change his clothes. Not too much more, I should think."

She turned to look out across the lawns. "I have always done my best. You know that, I hope. But there are times I feel marriage to another man would have been easier."

"This is a burden I never anticipated. He was dead. You must believe me. He was dead. I did not hide him from you for an instant."

"And after your indiscretions, what am I to think? Why are we not allowed to be proud of making it through a difficult situation? I have done more than will ever be asked of most wives, and I must hide it in shame, while you may trumpet your business successes to the heavens. Do other women have to hold their heads high and show no fear when meeting their brothers-in-law?"

"If it were not necessary -"

"But it is. And I shall hold my head high and show no fear. You must not think me cruel if I wish he would spend very little time here. The rest of the summer would be intolerable."

"You have not even met him yet."

She turned back to me, in a gesture I could only read as accusing. "And yet I know my mind and heart."

A footman came at that moment to announce that Julien wished to know if we were ready for him. I immediately felt guilty for the entire conversation, and Hélène only looked down, intent on smoothing her dress.

He was brought out to us a moment later. A part of me wanted to laugh as I introduced him to Hélène: both faces were a perfect emotional reflection of fear carefully pasted over with determination. She did not offer her hand, but she did curtsy to him. He bowed politely and did not sit until she had settled herself. I noticed her eyes kept flicking upwards to look at his scar. We would have to endure looks of that sort for the rest of his life.

"I hope your journey was pleasant. Or as pleasant as can be on one of those contraptions."

"Thank you, madame. It was at least faster than the stagecoach."

"But no less dusty. They are slightly better in that respect in winter, since the windows are closed."

"I am sure they are far better transportation in winter than in summer." He turned away to look across the lawn to the woods that lead down to the sea.

"The house must seem greatly changed. To live here all year, adjustments had to be made."

"My mother did not have much of an eye for decorating."

"I thought a view down to the sea would be lovely, but I was told it would be impossible."

"The trees block the storms," I explained. "Without the trees, all this glass would shake itself apart."

"I've never seen Marseilles in winter," Julien said hollowly. "Charles can explain to you."

"I know," Hélène told him, surprisingly gently. "I know all about your family."

He turned back to her. "I am sorry for what Charles has put you through."

I am certain I began to colour. She actually smiled. "You know what he has put me through?"

"I have met M. Ture. Charles has hurt both of you terribly."

"I mend. All husbands keep secrets from their wives. I am simply glad that what I discovered was a quiet problem quickly remedied, rather than our complete destruction. It would have been much more terrible to learn that the house would have to be sold to pay great debts or something of that nature." She rang for a servant to bring us something to drink. "Would you like something to eat, monsieur? Marlon, bring something light for M. Julien. He has had a long journey. You must not protest hospitality, monsieur. For how long will you be with us?"

Julien looked distinctly uncomfortable with the question. "I do not know. I had not intended to come now, but I could not stay in Paris. A short time, I think."

"You may stay as long as you like. We've plenty of space. I daresay you shan't even notice if we have other guests."

"I am interrupting?"

"Not at all," I told him. "Hélène often entertains, but our last set left just before you arrived. We will not have overnight guests again for a month or more."

He nodded. "I did not intend to put you out. I will leave if you wish."

Hélène forced a smile. "I insist that you stay, monsieur."

I used Marlon's return with drinks and a plate of fruit and brie to leave unnoticed. I asked one of the maids to bring Lucie to see me, certain I would receive more forthright answers as to just what had brought Julien here.

She was dressed in uniform, but wore no cap. "I am not angry, Lucie. You do not need to be afraid. I simply wish to know what happened in Paris."

"Another revolution, monsieur, like in February."

"Why does Julien not take part in it?"

"I don't know that I should say, monsieur. He talks - but I don't think he means for me to tell anyone."

"It is all right, Lucie. He will not be angry."

"He stopped going to see them. He said they were bickering among themselves. That most of them wanted to do something. The government moved to slow, they said, and the others, they said government always moves slow, how can anyone expect a miracle in four months? And so he stopped going. He said they don't listen to sense. He said he's too old for them to listen to on important matters."

"He stopped going to those political meetings."

"About two weeks ago, monsieur. He still saw one of them in the house. M. Radet. He came the morning we left. Said that the government was going to say something that wouldn't be much liked. He didn't know how bad the reaction would be. He spoke to M. Julien alone, but when he left, he told me to lock up tight, whatever we did in February, just in case."

"So you left the city."

"I think M. Julien thought about it a long time. He called me much later and said that he never wanted to hear gunshots again as long as he lived. So we started to pack. We left after luncheon, but already the carriage couldn't get through." She started trembling.

"What is it?"

"I'd never been so scared in my life, monsieur!" She burst into tears.

"Sit down," I told her, as gently as I could. "What happened?"

"We had to walk. He wouldn't go back. We took the satchels we had for on the train and we walked. And there weren't no way around, we had to go through a barricade, and they all had guns pointed at us! I held onto him real tight. He said they wouldn't shoot a woman. He was scared as I was, I think. We was both shaking so bad after we was safe on the train."

"They let you through?"

"They all like him because of that newspaper. M. Julien said to tell them he was ill and needed to leave the city. So they let us climb over what they'd started, before the barricade got up too high. But they was pointing guns at us for the longest time, trying to decide who we was and if we was lying!"

"I would have been terrified, too." Indeed, I hated to admit it, but it seemed Julien had been safest in her company. A sick man and a girl half his age were certainly no police spies. A sick man accompanied by another man would have aroused questions as to his actual health or illness. "You must be very relieved to be here."

She lowered her eyes. "I've never seen the ocean before. He talked about it a lot on the train."

"You rode with him, then?"

"He wanted me to. I'm sorry, monsieur, you're going to be angry, I know. We took what there was in the house that wouldn't be needed for groceries this week. He was so upset, monsieur. Staying in the city would have made him ill, I'm sure of it!"

"I am not angry. I was the one who neglected to leave funds for his use."

"We had to use my savings to get the coach from Marseilles, monsieur," she confessed softly. "I didn't realise when I got the second class tickets they took all else we had."

"How much?"

"Ten francs, monsieur."

"Don't lie to me."

"I don't!"

"You were cheated. Two passengers, no baggage, and ten francs. I had not realised there was so little left in the house."

"Prices went up after the one in February. We couldn't take so much."

"Your savings only comprised ten francs?"

"From this month, yes! I send my pay home every month. I keep ten in case I need something before I'm paid again."

"You are a prudent girl, in that case." I gave her the ten francs, though I felt sure she had lied. She deserved them for keeping Julien out of the nonsense in Paris, however. "You may go."

"Thank you, monsieur."

I returned to the terrace. Both Hélène and Julien were silent, looking out at the sea. "Is anything the matter?"

Julien stood immediately. "Nothing at all. Forgive me, I am rather tired from the journey."

"Of course. Dinner will be served at eight."

He bowed to Hélène and took his leave. "Something is the matter."

"How long must he stay?" she implored.

I resumed my chair next to hers. "At least a week. Anything less would be extremely rude on our part. Even if this rebellion is put down today, it would be impossible to encourage him to return to Paris tomorrow. Has he been less than civil?"

"Not at all. He has been a gentleman in every respect. But I do not like him. As it is, we have exhausted our store of conversation, and dinner will be a painful affair indeed. We have nothing in common. You and he have nothing in common except memories in which I do not figure. He is terribly gloomy. I know better than to attempt to discuss anything such as music or theatre. When you have associates or clients to dinner, without their wives, you always talk business. How does one entertain a convict?"

"He will keep to himself. We will most likely see him only at meals. I will make it clear to him that he need not feel obligated to play the role of the guest. If he does not desire company, he should not feel forced into it. He wanted out of Paris and could only come here. I was not thinking when I left and did not provide him with his own funds. He could only afford to come here. There is no reason for you not to like him."

"He is quite frightful to look at. Yes, I know that sounds childish. Why do I feel no pity for him?"

"Because you did not know him when he was strong and handsome. I think he would like you better than me simply for that. Pity is not an honourable emotion. Pity apologises but does nothing to remedy the injury. I do not think he has changed his mind on that score. You will do your best, will you not?"

"I always do my best, Charles. Why was he so interested in the grounds and the sanatorium? He did not know it was the sanatorium, but he was very curious about it."

"The past. The sanatorium, before it was bought by those Swiss doctors, was the home of his only childhood friend. Henri Enjolras was killed in their rebellion, and he left no heirs. Not even a will. The family used to own our beach, but we bought it when the state was to dispose of the property. Someone around here knew the Swiss were looking to build a sanatorium along the coast, and here was a big old house no one knew what to do with. How did he take the news?"

"I really do not know. He seemed to take it as he might have responded to a message about the weather in China."

"Perhaps he did not know what to think."

"What did he do, Charles? Why is he here rather than in the ground?"

"I don't know. It would have been kinder had he died. Not to us. To him. He has told me little in terms of details, but the visible scars were not earned on the barricade. He was wounded there, expected to die in the prison hospital, and so we were prematurely notified of his death. The legal knowledge I do have supposes that there are various requirements for them to have executed him at that point. Not least of which would have been a public trial, since all other prisoners from that rebellion were tried publicly. Somehow, they could not even beat him to death when they tried. Were he not my brother, I do believe I would think him somehow more than human. He should have died. But some bureaucratic error kept him from the guillotine, and some blessing or punishment has brought him to us. I know he would have preferred death, but it has always eluded him. They never sentenced him formally. I do not think anyone knows what he did. His sentence was not a choice based firmly in the nature of his crimes compared to those committed by others. One of the leaders talked himself free. Had Julien not been wounded, I believe he could have done the same."

"Abominable. What sort of judge was that?"

"I don't know. I was fifteen. I took an interest only because I knew Julien had died in that mess. I don't even remember the man's name. He came from a different group and led a different barricade. All of Julien's associates were killed."

She looked away. "Dinner will be painful. I do not know that I have the strength to force conversation yet again today."

"I left because I did not foresee another opportunity to speak with his servant. I shall not abandon you to his presence again."

"Do not make false promises, Charles. You neglected your work while the Dutilleuls were here. You will leave us alone to go to the office this week. The situation will simply have to resolve itself. I need to see to the children." I was dismissed.

Julien did appear for dinner, but I cannot recall what we discussed. Nothing of importance. He responded only to comments made directly to him, and conversation quickly dissolved into silence. I was not angry, and neither was he; there was simply nothing to say. Hélène excused herself early, and I let Julien follow. None of us seemed capable of bearing the awkwardness for another moment.


	6. Chapter 6

The weekend was painful. Hélène was angry, and Julien was silent. He claimed illness due to the journey and thereby avoided meeting Hélène again at meals, which only annoyed her.

"He comes here, claims our hospitality, but refuses to see us!"

"He is ill," I tried to tell her. "The weather has been warm. He is unaccustomed to it. Likewise, the journey has shaken him about. I do not wonder that he does desire peace and simple foods for his stomach."

"He is avoiding us."

"I should think that would please you."

"It is rude for a guest to avoid his hosts."

"This house belongs to him. The money with which the servants are paid and the food is bought belongs to him."

"You have spoken to a lawyer, then?"

"No."

"Then perhaps his imprisonment has forfeited his rights."

"I believe only a conviction for certain crimes can do that."

"Then we are guests in our own home, now that he is here? Has he come to collect his birthright? You should see a lawyer, Charles."

"I will speak to him of his intentions when he is well. I do not think a lawyer is necessary. Julien has not come to chase us from our home. He has come because he does not wish to see another failed revolt."

"Can you be so certain they will fail?"

"By his presence here, yes. He has made friends among the insurgents. I spoke to Lucie of it. He was warned by one who now works in the government that an uprising was likely. She believes they do not agree with the insurgents. Thus he has left the city so he will not have to see the deaths of more men he knew. I am certain it is simply a question of when the government will restore control, not if the government will restore control."

"You should speak to a lawyer, Charles."

I did not want to speak to a lawyer. To speak to a lawyer would mean publicising doubts as to Julien's beliefs, doubts as to how well I knew my own brother. The law was of little consequence to him. It had served him badly, and I was certain that we could reach an agreement that was fair, regardless of what the law prescribed. In any case, the law could not prescribe for this exact case: I knew it would assume that any prisoner had been tried and sentenced. Julien's case was unique. Nevertheless, for Hélène's sake, I promised I would see a lawyer sometime during the week.

Luckily, it was not necessary to even make an appointment. Sunday evening, Julien came to me in my study.

"It is long past time that certain questions should have been resolved."

I set aside the files with which I was working. "Yes, it is. Sit down, please. You needn't look as if you are a peasant humbly petitioning your lord."

He did not sit immediately, however. He paced for a bit, making a few gestures as if he were about to speak, but then changed his mind. I waited until he might find the words. Finally, he did sit. "I am not capable of earning my own living at this time. Reading and writing cause me great headaches after an hour so employed. I believe they may disappear, but when, I cannot say."

After such a display, I had expected a far worse admission. Such a difficulty was to be expected, and though the acknowledgement of it was painful to him, I had anticipated that the subject would arise soon. "An income should be provided. Of course. How much a year would you like?"

"My needs are small."

"Three thousand?"

He shook his head violently. "Pontmercy got by on a quarter of that."

"I don't see how. And that was twenty years ago. You cannot live as a pauper. I won't allow it."

"The house. It is convenient. If I may remain there, you shan't have to pay for a place for me. Unless you had intended to sell it."

"I had intended to use it when I am in the city, which is why it is still in the family. If it is amenable to you that I continue to use a room of it, and the servants, in that manner, then I see no reason that we may not go on sharing it."

"Then I hardly need three thousand a year. Five hundred would more than suffice."

"I will set up a bank account for you. Five hundred is ludicrous. You would have received more than three thousand had the estate been divided between us!"

"I do not like seeking sacrifices from you, Charles."

"Your rights are not a sacrifice. I take no pleasure in keeping them from you."

"Do as you think best, then."

"Will you accept two thousand?"

"Do as you think best."

"I will begin to make arrangements this week. Was there something else?"

"I do not like to bring it up, but it is not for me."

"What is it?"

He paused, as if to find the proper words. "Did you pay M. Ture?" he asked slowly.

"How is Sebastien's position your business?" I snapped back. He did not answer. "Yes," I acquiesced. "He received an allowance of eight hundred and fifty francs a year."

"I want Lucie's wages raised to that amount."

"What?" The request shocked me. "She is a housemaid!"

"She has not been performing those duties for some time now. She acts as my valet, therefore she should be paid for that work."

"You have lost me a maid and want me to more than double her wages?"

"Forgive me for the request. I shall do it myself out of the funds you allow me, if I might be permitted to use them in that manner."

God damn him for acting the humble petitioner. As if I would dictate how he might use his own money! To this day, I do not know if he was playing with me or if he truly meant what he said. After that display, I could refuse him nothing. My pride still required an attemp at bargaining, however.

"Seven-fifty, and not a penny more."

He nodded in acquience. "I am tired of seeing her in uniform. If she could be paid the difference of what she should have earned for this last month, so that she might be able to purchase more suitable clothing, I would greatly appreciate the gesture."

"I'll do it tomorrow. Is there anything else?"

"I hope I shall not be more than a week here, but I do not wish to return to streets patrolled by the national guard. Please apologise to your wife on my behalf. I would not want me here, either. I will do my best to stay out of her sight."

"You can't keep feigning illness. It annoys her more than your presence, I think. Keep whatever hours you like, but do join us for dinner."

"Very well." He started to go, but something stopped him. "I do not gossip. You know that. But I have news that may interest you. If you wish to hear it, then I will relate it. If not, then I will simply forget that I even possess the information."

"What is it?"

"It is about Sebastien Ture."

My blood ran cold, but I ordered him to sit down and tell me what he had heard. I do not entertain gossip either, but news of Sebastien is not gossip.

"About two weeks after you left, just before I stopped attending meetings, Marc Liennel went to the station where the trains come from the north. I forget the name. He went to meet his sister and her husband. M. Ture had not been seen by any of his friends since the argument, of which they know nothing. M. Liennel, in waiting for his sister's train, saw M. Ture. Do you wish that I continue?"

"Yes."

"They spoke a bit, at M. Liennel's insistence, until M. Ture's train was called. M. Ture was headed to Lille, where he had taken the position of tutor to the two sons of an iron merchant. Perhaps of greatest interest to you, however, is that M. Liennel said he barely recognised him, that M. Ture was surprisingly well-dressed and had his hair cut short, according to the proper fashion. Had he not seen his face as he passed, he would never have taken such a proper gentleman for M. Ture."

"Sebastien went to Lille as a private tutor."

"So it appears."

"How did he look?"

"I have told all I know, unless you are eager to hear the speculation of his friends."

"I want all of it."

Julien sighed. Facts are not gossip, but unfounded beliefs can be defined in no other way. "M. Liennel believes he has had trouble finding a position of that nature, that he came from one originally but turned radical and felt he had to put his radicalism aside in order to continue to support himself. He said he seemed greatly changed, but perhaps the barricades had sobered him. M. Radet believes that he felt the government provided no positions for which M. Ture felt himself suited and claimed it was a tragedy that if he wanted to teach, his financial situation did not allow him to wait for the planned educational reform. It was far too late for the barricades to have had any influence on him. M. Gamy preferred a more sensationalist reading of the entire incident and claimed that since no one knew anything of M. Ture's personal life, an engagement had ended badly and he preferred to escape Paris to the first decent position he could find. Then he dared anyone to contradict him on the basis of fact. M. Liennel said it could be true, that he was quite sober indeed and seemed both anxious to leave and full of regret at the necessity of departure. M. Ferrand said simply that M. Ture had gone over to the bourgeois and had always had leanings in that direction. But I think, once the idle talk ceased, that M. Gamy's version provided interest but was rejected in favour of M. Liennel's reading, since M. Liennel had provided facts."

I believe I slumped in my chair because he asked me if I were all right. "Go ahead, say it," I replied. It must have seemed a non sequitur to him because he simply looked at me in confusion. "The affair is dead. You win. You know what is best for me. Whatever the hell you were going to say."

"I had intended to say nothing more than I have already said."

"He cut his hair. That's a deliberate cut at me."

"Or simply a manner of looking fit for a position rather better than translating encyclopaedia articles."

"It was a cut at me. He left Paris so he wouldn't run into me again. He told me he had always wanted to teach, but no one entrusts their children to a fag."

"Then should you not be pleased that he follows his dreams?"

"He only left because you told him I had a crush on Henri Enjolras."

"I believe you overestimate my influence."

"He punched me in the jaw over it and told me to go to hell. I think you influenced him a great deal."

"And he had distanced himself from you prior to my appearance."

"You gave it the final blow."

"It was necessary. You see no more of him now than you did six months ago. You know no more of his whereabouts than you did six months ago. This is what should have happened but did not."

"Just go. I'll go to the bank tomorrow, and Lucie can have the extra month's salary when I return."

"Thank you. I am sorry to have caused such pain."

"Goodnight, Julien," I said firmly. He took his leave of me at last.

Sebastien had gone back into service, this time as a tutor. Again he tread the line between servant and visitor. I had put him through that for years, and he complained bitterly from time to time of the treatment he received backstairs. But now he returned to it. Was it safe? Did he feel that hiding backstairs was the best means of hiding from me? Or was it the best means of hiding from something else, something I had hidden him from before? Lille. Why Lille? Was Lille the best he could do? Was Lille the result of the first offer he received? Two weeks is very quick. I do not think he had ever been to Lille before in his life. Lille is as far as a person can go from Marseilles if he wishes to remain in France. Far from the beauty and health of Marseilles, Lille is an industrial hell. He would barely be able to breathe, I was certain of that. I was not going to be the one in hell; he volunteered himself for that journey.

The world does not revolve around me, but Sebastien's actions, after we have a fight, absolutely are a result of that fight. After all he had said when we spoke in his flat, he cut his hair and took a job as a tutor in Lille. I was angry, yes, but I was also grateful that Julien had been able to tell me. It was better to know.

I was in no mood to listen to a grateful maidservant, so on my return from town, I gave Julien some money, from which he could pay Lucie and still have his own funds at hand. The office has never needed me. Sometimes they want me, but they never truly need me. Stockholm had requested my presence in the spring. I did not go. The problem was solved, and the account remained with us, without my interference. Even with revolts in Paris and sympathisers in Marseilles, trade plods on. Rumours said that the reinforcements from the provinces had arrived in Paris, but I left before the evening editions of the papers were released. I learned the good news the next morning at breakfast.

I had thought I would breakfast alone, but Julien appeared before I was quite through. I did not know what to say. It was good news. He had escaped the city because he did not agree with the radicals, either. And yet I knew it would pain him. I could not calmly wish him a good morning and pretend events had not been resolved. He sat down across the table, and all I could do was pass him the newspaper.

He looked at me before he looked at it. I think he knew even before he read the article. It was then that I understood what Hélène had meant when she said he took news as if one had told him the weather in China. Julien had grown so accustomed to hiding his reactions to bad news that it caused little visible change in him. He set the newspaper aside and turned his attention to his egg. It was only then that his emotion was evident. I had not seen his hands shake in months, and the clatter of silver on china vexed him so much that he gave up on the egg entirely and contented himself with a bit of bread, ignoring his coffee.

I did not know what to say, so I said nothing, and neither did he. He left quickly, and I ordered that the paper be burned. I had no desire to see it again.

Instead of confronting what I knew even then could become a situation at home, I went to the office. Of course, no one could speak of anything but the victory of the national guard and the relief that the radical elements had been stopped relatively quickly. It seems a German had written a book calling for massive reforms of society, claiming that the working peoples of Europe were brethren and demanding that they rise up together in a grand revolution. It struck fear into me the moment I heard of it. Sense triumphed for now, but no one could predict what future imbecilities might arise due to one thin German volume. If Julien knew of its existence, he had already read it. I only hoped that it was liked by the radicals who had perpetrated this latest nonsense, for then it would have no bearing on his future thought and actions. Workers may not read, but they do not need to when they have students to do it for them. Everyone had an opinon as to the consequences of the revolt, but even the next evening edition had no more news from Paris. Trials of the participants would commence immediately, but that was expected. No one knew how long the city might be occupied or what punishments to expect for the rebels.

I returned late, since I had been anxious to get the news. Evening editions go to the streets at six; I returned after seven. Twilight lasts until nine at the height of summer, so we usually eat as the sun goes down. I was told that dinner would be ready a bit early, in perhaps half an hour, so I went upstairs to see if Julien was all right. He was not in his room, nor in the library, so I had a servant fetch Lucie.

"He's gone down to the beach, monsieur. Been out all day, nearly."

"Then will you go and fetch him, so that he may have ample time to prepare for dinner?"

She went, but a quarter of an hour later, she reappeared. "I'm sorry, monsieur. I think maybe you better come. He don't come when I call."

"What do you mean?"

Julien's behaviour obviously pained her. "He's just sitting there on the beach, bare as the day he was born, and he don't answer when I call his name."

My first thought was that the news had unhinged him, but I told myself she was exaggerating. "Show me where he is."

The lawns and gardens are extensive, and the woods are not simply a row of trees, so the walk to the beach allowed ample time for Julien to come to himself. But as we left the woods, there he was, in the same position Lucie must have seen when she came the first time. I called his name, but he did not answer. His back heaved with each breath, which relieved me greatly. He was so still otherwise that I might have feared he had died were it not that he still took breath.

His clothes were folded neatly in a pile between the roots of the tree just to the right of the path. I was not certain how long he had been sitting in the sun, but his back was very red indeed. I bent down next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He responded briefly to my touch: he did at least look at me before returning to his steady, impenetrable gaze over the water.

"Lucie, I want you to take a message back for me. Please tell my wife that Julien is rather ill. He may be in to dinner, but he may not be. I will stay with him. She may dine alone if she likes. Impress upon her that we may return in twenty minutes or in two hours. It is impossible to know at this point. And tell the cook that she should do whatever she thinks best with the rest of the dinner. If it will not keep, then someone else should eat it."

When she left, I sat down next to Julien and attempted to follow his gaze. There was nothing but the southern horizon. Did he think he could see across the Mediterranean to Algeria? The silence was overpowering. We made no noise over the waves as the tide came in; the only sounds of life were the gulls who are never absent from the beach. He had been swimming earlier: his shoulder was sticky with salt mixed with sweat, and his hair was still damp. He was quite well burned, though once the red disappeared, his complexion would finally look normal again. He sat with his arms resting on his knees, just staring out over the water.

I waited what felt an interminable time for him to break the silence, but he did not say a word. I made a comment about the weather but received no reply. I feared he would sit there all night if I did not try something, so I laid my hand on his shoulder again. I could feel his shoulders tense, but he did not look at me. "It has grown quite late. Did you have a nice swim?"

"What is the point of it all?" he whispered slowly.

"The point of what?"

"Why am I here?"

I asked about swimming, and he replied with the mystery of the universe. "I don't know," I replied.

"Neither do I. I thought - I thought M. Ture was sent for a purpose. Is it not an improbable coincidence that he became friends with M. Radet? Is it not even more improbable that we should meet him in the street? Improbable coincidences must have meaning. But they did not listen to me. I could not reason with them. So that is not why I am here."

"You think you were reserved for some great mission?"

"I do not know. Why should I have been saved only to become a Cassandra?"

"What does it matter? Are all of us put on earth to fulfill some element of a grand design? Do I succeed or fail in my element?"

"It is not the same. You were born and you live. I should have died. By all logic, I should have died. Why am I cursed to live, while he lies under the grass of a filthy corner of Père Lachaise?"

"You think he could have done better, in your place? If they will not listen to you, they will listen to no one."

"He was ten times the man I was."

"No, he wasn't. I admired you so much."

"You never knew him. He could have been interred in the Panthéon had he lived."

"You wish he could have been."

"We worked so hard. I made him what I could never be."

"What?"

He had dropped his hand, his fingers grasping at the sand. "I made him great. And then I killed him. And I live and am hailed as a miracle, while the greater of the two lies forgotten."

"You made him," I repeated, a little confused.

"I was the elder. I found the path first. He followed me. The younger boys always follow the elder. How could I have been so foolish as to bring him along with me? He passed me so quickly. I was so proud of him, so proud to be his brother. We didn't think. We never thought. Emilie. Then Henri. And all the rest, too. I've killed so many men. Why do I deserve to live and they do not? What is left for me if no one listens?"

"None of us were here when it happened. I barely know the gossip."

"You were too young. I killed her. I was the one who took Henri into the parts of the city his father never wanted him to see. I opened his eyes. We thought we could change the world. That's the only reason they met. If I had not lit a grander fire in him, they would never have fallen in love. She would never have joined us. Don't you see? I am the reason she was silenced. Her murder was a warning to me. And yet we went on," he accused himself.

"Does the rest of the world revolve around you as well?"

"Don't be flippant," he snapped. It was a good sign. I had brought him out enough to full acknowledge my presence.

"I'm not entirely ignorant of what happened. She was raped and beaten and died of her wounds. That was the rumour. Disgusting as these things are, they have happened for reasons other than vengeance."

"She was on her way home from a political meeting."

"At night. Maybe she was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"The police believed there had to have been more than one of them. You never met her. She was as tall as a man. What happened would not have been possible unless there were at least two assailants. Do you really think that gangs of men go about raping young women? I spoke to the police myself. Henri was ill when I arrived."

He was speaking normally again. He still did not look at me, but at least he no longer sounded like the Delphic Oracle. "Disgraceful," I muttered.

"Which is disgraceful? Her death or his reaction to it?" Julien had been in London at the time, with a business friend of father's, learning the English methods of finance. It is not easy to cross the Channel in winter, so it had been agreed that he would spend Christmas in England. Except he came tearing through Paris, begging for more money with which to obtain horses in order to reach Marseilles as quickly as possible. He would not have come home if I had been ill, but when Henri Enjolras tried to kill himself, Julien came running. Henri might have been dead and buried by the time he arrived, but he ran all the same.

"Both," I replied. "He never spoke to me again."

"But you still loved him."

"You said yourself it was nothing but lust."

"Your emotions did not change with regard to him."

I thought a moment. I had been jealous. But I had been jealous the summer before as well. "True."

"I never stopped loving him. Our lives had been entwined for so long that it was impossible even to contemplate it. He was not so worthy of the Panthéon then. It was only after that he became truly great. I wonder if he would have had more success than I have had."

"People listen to you as much as they ever did to him, Julien. You're the most learned person I've ever known."

"You need not flatter me, Charles. I know well enough that I am nothing."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "There has never been a Combeferre who is simply 'nothing'. If they didn't listen to you, it is because they refused to listen to anyone."

He looked down. "You still wear your shoes?"

"I came to call you to dinner."

"I am not hungry. Take off your shoes if you intend to stay."

I did as he asked. I was hungry, but I refused to leave him alone in the deepening twilight. "Did you have a nice swim?"

"I haven't the strength for it yet. The doctors have kept up the Enjolras house well. I was surprised."

"Only very rich consumptives go there to die, I believe. They would not stay if the house were not maintained." The air was cooling, but the sand was still warm between my toes. I had made love to Sebastien many times on this beach. It almost seemed wrong to watch darkness fall in the presence of my brother when I had grown accustomed to summer evenings with my lover. "Has it been too warm for you?"

"It is how it is. I know it will grow worse."

"Did you come out here to think about him, or just to think?"

"We met on this beach. You were two years old at the time. I never told you, did I?"

"Told me what?"

"How I met Henri. To you it must have seemed as if he had always been here."

"It is impossible to think of you at home without him. I was jealous of him for years."

"Stop joking."

"I'm not, entirely. You were always busy with him in the summer. I was jealous. You weren't in love with him, were you?"

"Don't be absurd. You are the only one who has had those feelings."

"Me and that girl."

"Her name was Emilie Duchamp. She was in love with him. You simply lusted after him. And I did not ignore you in the summer. I made time as work allowed."

"So, to your knowledge, there was no fucking on this beach."

"Leave if you are going to continue to be crude."

I was pleased. It was still my romantic rendez-vous point. "I'm sorry. You met him on this beach."

"It was the summer I was recovering from the scarlet fever. I was bored nearly to tears because I disliked the doctor's recommendations. No more studies, simply massive amounts of fresh air and whatever activities would help me regain my strength. So no more tutors, my books were locked away, and I was turned out of the house from noon until dinner. Imagine if you were not allowed a sheet of paper, or perhaps worse, had all the paper you could ever want, but not a single drop of ink or stub of charcoal. So I would come down here and swim and play Robinson Crusoe, since I had nothing else I was allowed to do. Henri caught me one day, since it was his property, and that was it. Our parents were not happy, but Father was far more accepting of the situation than M. Enjolras, and M. Enjolras took several days to decide that I appeared to be a good influence on his wayward son. It was years before he changed his mind in that regard." Julien leaned back and smiled. "We caused no real trouble until it was possible to blame me for Henri's love affair with a blacksmith's daughter. It was entirely my fault that they met in the first place, though I never encouraged him to fall in love. We were so young. If someone had told us the future, we never would have believed it. There were things in the world that we did not know existed." A cool breeze came up from the sea, and he shivered.

"Put your clothes on. You've been out here long enough. I would not be surprised if your back blistered by morning."

"The last time I saw the sea, it was grey and angry. I have not been here since I took Henri back to Paris. Twenty years."

I brought his clothes to him. The tide had come in significantly and would soon begin to lap at our feet. "Come in, please."

He sighed, but at least he half dressed himself. Enough so that he could return to the house without appearing as Adam after the fall.

Hélène had already dined, and Mme Staquet, our cook, was not pleased that we had come so late. I listened to her rant about ruined dinner, no respect for her work, and numerous other evils to which I paid little attention before asking that something be found. Julien went to bed without eating, but I refused.

On my way to bed, I saw a glimmer of light under Hélène's door. I almost knocked, but I decided it was hardly the time to disturb her. Instead, I went to my own room and read until I was tired enough to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

I did not sleep well, and it was early the next morning that I sent for Lucie, to give her permission and authority to ask anything necessary to care for Julien. I was certain he would be badly burned, and it was no surprise when she appeared at breakfast to make apologies for him.

Hélène joined me as Lucie left. "How is he?"

"I'm sorry for last night. I was afraid to leave him."

"How is he?" she asked again, more firmly.

"Not well. Did you see him at all yesterday?"

"No. I only know what the servants told me. Is he quite ill?"

"Not ill. The news of the rebellion shocked him. He is rather in some pain now because he spent all day in the sun, but he was better when we came in than when I found him."

"Was he greatly attached to the rebels?"

"No. They brought back memories, that is all."

"You sound sad."

"I didn't sleep well last night. You mustn't worry. How are the children?"

"Curious as to the visitor. He will be here for some time longer, will he not?" The resignation in her voice was palpable.

"I am afraid so. Paris is under occupation, and if I were him, I would never want to see another soldier as long as I lived. Another month, perhaps the rest of the summer. I know it is hard on you."

"At least you pretend to care."

"Hélène . . ."

She shook her head. "I understand. You will not leave us alone together at length, I trust. Promise me you will not leave the country until he returns to Paris. It would be dreadful to be the only ones here."

I promised. I had no intention of leaving them alone together, Julien apologising for me right and left, Hélène capable of telling him anything Sebastien had left out.

We chatted about the weather a bit, until she had finished eating. After breakfast was her usual time with the children, so I went to my study to peruse some files I had brought home and needed to return.

I never thought I would have to speak to Lucie so many times in one morning. I had not been there half an hour before she came knocking.

"M. Julien says he has no need of me this afternoon, monsieur, and he wishes that I go into town to order some clothes."

I was not in the mood to argue. "I will be going to the office in a few minutes. You may ride on the box with Lantes." It was not for me to question Julien's infatuation with the girl. She was a housemaid. I supposed she was the most harmless individual he had seen in years, and if that were the case, then I could not blame him for the inappropriate attachment. It was appropriate enough for the time being, as long as his convolescence did not drag on interminably with her always at his side.

She was properly grateful, and when Lantes brought the carriage around, she was neatly perched next to him.

Julien was never far from my mind in those days, and while I performed a modicum of work, my head was not in it. I went into town more for news from Paris than out of any sense of duty to the company. There were no further developments. Life had already returned to normal, the only exception being the continued presence of troops in the streets.

Lucie was with Lantes when he arrived at six to drive me home. There were a few parcels and a hatbox, and I knew to expect more deliveries. I rather feared how Julien was allowing the girl to dress herself, but I had no choice but to hope that she had some sense. She had always seemed capable enough in her duties as long as authority did not interfere too much, so some sense was to be expected.

Julien did not appear at dinner, and Hélène and I had little to discuss. Later that evening, however, I decided I could not allow him to continue avoiding me. I knocked at his door. No one answered, so I opened it myself.

The sun was going down, and Julien sat at the window, half inside and half on the balcony, his elbows resting on his knees, glaring at me as I entered. He was barely dressed, shoeless, his shirt unbuttoned. His skin was bright red and seemed quite painful, as I had feared.

"I did not wish to be disturbed."

"I didn't come to disturb you. I came to see how you were. Nasty sunburn."

"I am capable of feeling foolish without your presence. You need not remind me."

"I'm sorry."

He looked away, out over the lawn. "I am not ill. You think I am ill in the head. My designs were foolish, but they did start out as designs. I wanted to be with Henri. It was only right at such a time. Since it cannot happen, I wanted to be where I might feel closest to him, where we had spent so much time and made so many plans. I wanted to burn off the gaol. I had forgotten how much pain the sun could cause. I wish there was a way I could forget the past sixteen years. I'm not ashamed of what I did in 1830. I'm ashamed that I did not follow my better judgement in '32. You want me to be ashamed of it all, but I am not. I refuse to be."

I decided that flippancy was perhaps the only response. "You'll look like an Indian once the red fades."

"Better a kafir than a convict."

I sat down on the bed. "You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm as harmless as Lucie."

"I'm not afraid of you. Or of your wife. You have a lovely wife. But I know what she thinks of me because it is what I would think of me. It is one thing to say I went to prison for treason. But the appearance is very different. I know very well that the beatings I endured make me look very dangerous. I would not want me in my house. Lucie has been well trained, and in spite of my appearance, I have a good voice and a kind word for her, and those attributes are enough for her to consider me a gentleman. My crimes are outside of her experience. She does not understand high concepts such as treason. Your wife is a very different matter. How can a man who looks as I do present himself in her drawing room?"

A part of me wanted to laugh at his vanity. I never would have considered Julien vain. But then, he had no need of it. He had been handsome, erudite, respected, and because he was all those things, he had never seemed to think of them. Now that he was considered none of those things, it irked him exceedingly. He had had such trouble confessing that his eyes continued to bother him. He fussed over his appearance. He bemoaned the idiocy of schoolboys who refused to listen to reason. Vanity. A part of me wanted to laugh, and yet it seemed so petty, so far beneath him. Of course he is human, but vanity is not a trait of the intellectual. Byron was vain, Molière was vain, but Bossuet and Montesquieu were not. Their thoughts were on a higher plane, and that is how I had always thought of my brother. Something more than other men, not flawed as badly as the rest of us.

"You bow low and speak softly and discuss poetry and novels and art. We are an educated household."

"She is well read?"

"Quite. She could teach you a great deal about the literature of the past decade. We have little enough to discuss as it is, I think I should have died had the courtship been as boring as the marriage."

Julien shook his head. "Do you re-enact our parents' marriage?"

"We entertain my friends as well as hers. She is of an altogether sweeter temper than Mother could ever claim. The experience is not painful. It could be a great deal worse for both of us, especially if we had married other people."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She is pretty and graceful, but she lacks wit and does not shine among strangers. Paris society is impossible. We tried. Another man might find the discrepancy between her appearance and her personality rather trying, but I don't need a glittering wife. At least we have something to discuss. There is theatre and opera, and there is literature, and we honeymooned in Italy, though Mother's death cut it short. We discussed art. I did some painting. And Sebastien stayed in Paris, so you needn't think I treated her badly from the beginning."

"I'm sure she finds it a grand marriage."

"I don't mistreat her. I never have done."

He looked out at the darkening lawn. "But you don't love her."

"Life isn't a fairy tale."

"No, it is not. Do you ever wonder what might have happened had you made one decision differently?"

"Of course."

"I almost turned away. The day of Lamarque's funeral, I almost left when I realised they were building a barricade. Who knows what might have happened? I was known to enough backstreet printers that it would not have been difficult to find me. Perhaps I would have been tried for treason anyway. We would still be here, in this ridiculous dance of blame and supposition. You would have told everyone I was dead, in order to be spared the shame of a relation in prison. I was caught in the crossfire, I suppose."

"I'm not ashamed."

"Don't lie."

"I don't." He turned to look at me. "Why should I be ashamed that you had strength I've never had? I loved you for it even when I didn't agree with the reason you were using it. Prison is a failure you cannot even deny, but death for ideals that seem impossible? That's martyrdom. The martyrs' families did not shrink away in shame, and neither did we. Grief and guilt, but not shame. Father spoke of you to everyone who would listen in these later years, and we never hid what we thought was your death in some euphamism. I was fifteen and still thought I was going to be an artist. A real artist, like Constable or Delacroix, not some government-supported toady like this detestable Gérôme. You were hardly the only one in the family with an idealistic streak. I thought it was a wonderful thing you did. Stupid, but wonderful, just like the Martyrs."

"And then you grew up."

"And then I grew up," I repeated sadly. "It was easier then, wasn't it? Before lovers and wives and children and the company. Martyrdom for this?"

"You would like some of them, if you bothered to pay any attention to them. It is a conservative revolution. Most of them want steps to reform, not a bloody conflagration. You must acknowledge that things are not as they should be. Even had I died, I would have been no martyr."

"Nothing is as it should be. English influence has brought laws against dressing inappropriate to one's gender."

"You never engaged in that nonsense, I hope."

"Of course not. Can you really imagine me in petticoats? There was some consternation in my set. Really, we harm no one by a bit of play-acting in our own homes."

Julien shook his head. "I once knew women who would be in serious difficulties if that is indeed the law today."

I could not help my curiosity. "Were they -"

"Female versions of you?" he finished.

I nodded.

"It was not my business. They were politically minded, intelligent women who preferred male dress. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they were simply stifled by society as it is."

"I am stifled by society as it is."

"And what of your wife? Do you know if she has political opinions? Or does she not dare express opinions at all, much less in politics?"

"You needn't be so harsh. She expressed her opinions of Sebastien and myself with utmost candor."

"How can you still be so fixated on him?"

"It was a defining event in my marriage, indeed in my life, and if you had ever lowered yourself to such human emotions as love, you might understand! But no, you wallow in your vanity, assuming you know better than everyone else, when you have barely lived!"

"Don't you dare speak of what you do not know!"

"You said yourself you never fell in love!"

"That does not mean I have not lived! What is it in Sebastien Ture that drives your emotions? Was it truly only his face?"

"For god's sake, I could have found another if that was the case! The resemblance was vague at best, and you only think of it because you think of him constantly!"

"You cared enough for Henri to ask your doll to grow his hair. It was the hair that brought him to mind in the first place."

"Brought him to mind? He's never left your mind for a moment! I think you were the one in love with Henri Enjolras!"

He was suddenly quiet. "You cannot possibly comprehend the way in which we loved each other. It was a far higher emotion than if we had wished to share our bodies in disgusting acts. We were brothers." He stared at his arm, at the faint line below his left wrist, the one scar that had been a part of him for as long as I could remember. "Brothers."

For some reason I was shaking. "He wasn't a doll. If that were all it had been, I could have found another. Do you really think I couldn't advertise for someone that specific? There are more of us than you would like to think, Julien, and most of us need to make a living somehow. I liked the hair. It was a fantasy. Why is that so damning? I love him. We shared so much. I can't follow him now, and that is your fault. Do you think I don't wish I could love my wife the way I love him? Sometimes I wish I had never loved him at all. It would be so much easier. It would have been so much easier if I had been at the Beaux-Arts and we had never met. You could never understand."

"Yes, I can," he replied softly. "Had I never met Henri, he would still be alive. Had I never met René Courfeyrac, he would still be alive. Feuilly would have lost himself in a different group. The same for Bahorel. Marius Pontmercy lives in spite of me. Little Prouvaire's execution was entirely my fault. Joly, Lesgle, even Grantaire. If I had not been foolish, they would all be well settled in their bourgeois lives. But I was a fool, and my hands are red with their blood. I would spend the rest of my life in gaol if it could restore the ill I have done. I would give my life it could make any difference. But there is no return for the dead."

The long rays of the sun bathed the balcony in a reddish light. Inside the chamber, dusk had fallen. I could no longer see his face in the shadows. Though I wanted to touch him, to comfort him physically, I knew I could not without causing him pain. I could only remain where I was. I could only offer words. "You've suffered enough. It's time to start again."

"If only it were that simple. What am I fit for? One cannot live as Socrates did."

"You have money. In time, you will discover some means of employment. You needn't worry about supporting yourself, at least. And I am sure you still have friends in Paris. M. Radet, for one."

"There is nearly a generation between us."

"Does it stop you from enjoying his company? Lucie told me he is the only one you still see."

"We get on well. He is practical for a dreamer."

"As we all are when push comes to shove." I grabbed his hand in the darkness. "You'll come through just fine. I swear it."

I could barely see his face, but I swore he gave me a tightlipped smile. "So will you."


	8. Chapter 8

And yet he continued to avoid meals for the next two days. When I asked Lucie how he did, she pulled a face and displayed an empty soup bowl. "This will be full of his skin in an hour, that's how he does. Monsieur." It was not an excuse for her tone with me, but it was reasonable enough to not press him to join us for dinner. When he finally did make an appearance at dinner, after nearly a week, he still looked rather sore, but his colour was predominantly Moorish instead of Indian. It was a stiff and hurried meal, Hélène and Julien afraid to look at each other.

Once he had healed somewhat, his wanderings began. Often in the company of Lucie, he would leave after breakfast, sometimes not returning until dinner. Dinner remained awkward and silent – he would not tell us where he went. I finally caught Lucie alone one morning, sitting by the window in his room, mending one of his shirts.

"Where is Julien?"

"Out, monsieur. As I told the cook, he will not return for luncheon today."

"But where is he?"

"I don't know, monsieur."

"Did he take his luncheon with him? I know you have done that before."

"Not today."

"Where do you think he is?"

"I don't think I ought to say, monsieur."

I sat down – she obviously knew something of importance but it was going to take more than a few minutes to get it out of her without her then relaying my interrogation back to Julien. "Have you enjoyed your stay here?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur. I never saw the sea before."

"It is beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's like a painting, only real," she replied enthusiastically, her sewing forgotten for the moment.

"I'm afraid you don't see much of it, trapped up here in the house."

"Oh, no, monsieur. M. Julien showed me the path down to the beach, you know. I got nearly every day, even when he does not. I've even – I'm sorry, monsieur. I shouldn't say."

"It's all right. You are not in any trouble."

She looked down at her sewing. "I've gone to the fishing village alone, monsieur."

"The fishing village? Les Goudes? That must be a good four miles!"

"But it's so beautiful, and the wind of the sea is so lovely, and they give me water and sweet wine when they see me because think M. Julien is my father, I think, and I don't know how to tell them he isn't because they don't speak French, but they are so kind. And sometimes, the fishermen make a fire on the beach and roast the fish they've just caught. To think, I've eaten a fish that was swimming in the ocean not an hour before!"

"Where else have you been?"

"I've said too much already, monsieur."

"I'm not asking about Julien. I'm asking about you."

"The beach and the village and the sanatorium are the only places I go without him."

"You go to the sanatorium?"

"Part of the grounds aren't fenced, and the gardens there have some different flowers than the gardens here."

"If Julien were to stay here, would you stay?"

"But he won't stay here. He is only hiding from the soldiers."

"Is that what he told you?"

"We will return when the heat breaks. It is nice to be out of Paris in August – Paris is so dusty."

"I thought I heard voiced," Hélène interrupted. "Really, Charles, I had thought the maids were safe."

"We were just talking. I was looking for Julien."

"He has walked into town. I thought you were going to the office today."

"Lucie -"

"Why should she be the only person in the house to know things? He asked at breakfast if I needed anything. I offered him a carriage but he insisted on walking. You should be pleased – he is no longer hiding himself in our house, and we spoke to each other in a quite civilised manner."

"Have you walked into town with him, Lucie?"

"I don't think I ought to say, monsieur."

"It isn't a secret if he is offering to run errands."

She looked at Hélène, then at me, and finally addressed her sewing. "Yes. We walk along the beach rather than the road and come in along the docks. He has stopped several times outside a blacksmith's shop. He never speaks to anyone, just listens to the hammer on the anvil."

"How many times have you gone?"

"Three. In the past two weeks. But I think he's gone without me, too, because he knew where the forge was."

"He never speaks to anyone?"

"Hélène, stay out of this." She left in a huff.

"I shouldn't say anything more. I shouldn't have said anything at all."

"You have done just as you should. He has money with him, doesn't he?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"He will eat?"

She visibly relaxed. "Oh, yes, monsieur. There is a workingman's café we have stopped at before. He is much better, monsieur." She even smiled.

I let her go back to work. Hélène was waiting for me in the hall. "What was that?"

"My brother is not really any of your business, particularly when you have accused me of corrupting his maid."

"I don't enjoy hearing your voice in unexpected bedrooms when I believe you to be out. Really, I think it's romantic. Don't make an argument over this."

"Over what?"

"His trips into town."

"What is possibly romantic about this?"

"The blacksmith's daughter. I think he was in love with her himself. He goes to the forge, and today I would bet he is laying flowers on her grave."

"My brother's life is not a novel, a vehicle for your romantic speculation."

"I can't have nice thoughts about him now?"

"I thought he was a traitor and a murderer?"

"He is also gentlemanly and looks as miserable and out of place in your life as I feel. And if his life were a novel, I would welcome any scene that eases pain because I won't have one in my own life." She walked off, and I did not even know if I should stop her.

Instead, I called for the carriage and went into town. I had my driver drop me at the office, but after he had left, I went to the hôtel de ville and found the records division. Unfortunately, the clerk was too young to know what I wanted, to remember what a stir there had been, so I had to go to the library to dig through stacks of old newspapers.

As it turned out, I would have asked for the wrong year had I even remembered the girl's surname. Émilie Duchamp, 23 years old, beaten to death 6 November 1826. Her killers never found. Then I went back to the hôtel de ville, where the clerk was able to tell me she had been buried in the Cimetière St-Charles.

But I went back to the office. Hélène's speculations could hardly be true – Julien was not the sort to have allowed himself the emotion of a love triangle. If it were a triangle, his love had been for Henri Enjolras and of the purest kind. Yet I did not dare go to her grave because I was certain he would be there. He had taken his day to mourn Enjolras; it only made sense that he would take his day to mourn the girl Enjolras had so wished to marry. And I did not wanted to see it.

I did, however, want to know. So I went down there, close to closing time, and asked the gatekeeper to help me find her grave. He did not mention if anyone else had asked him for it lately, and I did not dare ask, but there was a large bouquet of wildflowers, as are found on the dunes, wilted from the heat.

"Did you have a pleasant day?" I asked him at dinner.

"Yes, the weather has been very fine."

"A bit hot for so much walking, I should think."

"When you have spent so many years in the cold, you would not tire so easily of the hot sun."

"Will you stay the rest of the summer?" Hélène asked.

"Until the heat breaks. With your permission, madame."

"Of course. Paris must be dead in August. Marseille certainly is."

"Only the fashionable quarters are deserted. Most people cannot afford to leave."

"Of course. Forgive me."

"Not at all. But you are correct – nothing happens in the city in August."

"You are welcome to stay as long as you like. I am surprised you went into town today – it must have been awfully hot and dull."

He flushed. "It was quiet, and that was my intention."

"What did you do all day?" I asked.

"I walked into town. I dined. I walked around a bit more. I returned here. The sea breeze makes it quite comfortable to walk along the shore."

I did not know how to ask what I wanted to know, so we resumed our now-habitual silence.

After dinner, Julien returned to his room, and I followed Hélène to the drawing room to read a little before bed. "He went to the cemetery," I told her. Of course, she was actually reading, so I had to repeat myself.

"Did you follow him?"

"No! I never even saw him. But I went to the cemetery before the closed for the evening, and someone had placed wildflowers on her grave, so I don't think it was her family. They're working people, wouldn't have the time to tramp over the dunes when you can get proper flowers from the girl at the gate for a sou."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To apologise for this morning?"

"I thought he didn't exist for my romantic speculation."

"You read too much George Sand. But it's better than acting as if you fear he'll slit our throats one night."

"Since he is going to stay, I have to have some way to cope with him."

"So do I. He has become a complete stranger in the past sixteen years. But I don't want to speculate. I want to know."

"Following him is not the answer. Interrogating his maid is not the answer. I did not have you followed, though you deserved it. I acknowledged I could never know you. Not everyone lives for you.

"I know. But he has been sheltered so long; someone has to keep him safe."

"He is a grown man. And so are you. And protecting him will not make him love you. It hasn't even made me love you."

"What would make you love me again?"

"You want my love? I'm not foolish enough to believe that again. You betrayed me on our honeymoon – that alone proves you never cared."

"What?"

"You kept disappearing in Venice. If he did not meet you there, then you met prostitutes. I am not a fool anymore."

"Sébastien was in Paris the whole time, and I never patronised prostitutes, in Venice or anywhere else."

"Models, then. Did you find yourself a David?"

Yes, models. I did some actual painting in Venice. I told you this then."

"You were gone more often than what you shared with me would have required to produce."

"I was monitoring my mother's health. I spent more time at the post office than I ever wanted to. I never spent an evening away from you."

"And I didn't think anything of it, then, but I was young and naïve, and when you proved adept at practising on me, many things took on a new and distressing coloration. I think your brother trusts me more than he trusts you precisely because he knows what you did to me. Why should he tell you where he goes when you interrogate his servant in h is absence? He'll tell me, and even try to be polite, because he knows I couldn't care less what he does, so long as he is out of my house."

"I don't understand you. Do you like him or don't you?"

"I don't know! He is kinder to me than you have been since we were married, more honest, more gentlemanly. But to look at him is to remember what he did. I don't know. I do know the only way I have been able to cope has been to think of him as a character in a novel, because his contradictions cannot be real otherwise. And if this were a novel, I would feel terribly sorry for him and want him to fall in love with the heroine and go on to have the perfect bourgeois lifestyle – and I suppose election to the Chamber of Deputies – that he deserves. But in real life, I don't know. And when he leaves, I won't have to know."

"And who is the heroine in this novel?"

"If you are trying to insinuate that I see myself in the role, you are quite mistaken," she replied coldly. "A widow of a certain age and education, perhaps. If it were a novel, you and I would not exist at all because you would try to make yourself the main character." No longer angry, merely, confused, she asked, "Is this an apology or an argument?"

"An apology. I'm going to bed."

"Good night."

"You are not coming?"

"I want to finish this chapter."

And here you see the truth of our marriage. "I want to finish this chapter." We have separate bedrooms, usually separate sitting rooms, and when we do come together, it is an interruption.

On Saturday, Julien asked if he might take the carriage into town. "I would like to attend mass at the Cathedral tomorrow."

"Since when are you a Christian again?"

"It is not heresy to join the English tourists in listening to the chant, is it?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"I think we should all go," Hélène insisted brightly.

"Of course. I thought you preferred your chapel, or I would have suggested it sooner."

"I think it would make a nice change."

So we went to mass. I kept an eye on Julien, who did precisely what he had said he wanted to do – stand at the rear with the tourists and let the tones of the plainchant flow over him. I had expected a rendez-vous of some sort, but indeed, he had come solely for the music. After, the carriage returned for us and we went home to a cold luncheon on the terrace.

"I had never thought of mass as a musical concert," Hélène said, "but you are right – it is beautiful to listen to at Ste-Marie-Majeure."

"I hope my request did not offend you. I have not heard music in such a long time."

"Not at all. Thought it is curious that Charles calls you a heathen."

"But I am. If I had not been before, I certainly would be now. Can you really believe this world is directed by a benevolent god who seeks to perfect his creation in order to bring it to eternal salvation? Slavery, war, industrialisation, the continual triumph of men who seek power over men who seek salvation, and all earthly attempts at betterment rebuffed. If a god is all-knowing and all-powerful, why so many false starts? Or, why have we not all been swept away again? We deserve it far more than the people of old. To give up on earthly punishment and defer to the Last Judgment is weak."

"You have not understood the New Testament properly."

"It is said that the American revolutionary and president Thomas Jefferson took a Bible, excised all mentions of God or miracles, and found that what was left was a perfectly legitimate code of morality, explained by a man named Jesus, that needed no reliance on divinity because it was whole in itself. I admire that man greatly."

"If I remember correctly, Jefferson also thought there should be a revolution every twenty years," I reminded him.

"As I said, I admire that man," he replied evenly.

"But what do you believe?" She ignored me when I motioned for her to stop. "You must believe something."

"Man should be perfectible, but we have gone nowhere and perhaps never will because we are guided by our own wants rather than the needs of the multitude. I used to think the dawn would come – look at how America inched forward to understand the necessity of throwing off the colonial and monarchical yoke – and yet they still wallow in slavery. A push is needed. A bonfire destroys, but it also provides light and heat in the night. I don't like casualties, but I have had to sacrifice for the possibility of a light before the dawn. I had thought the perfectibility of man was written in the stars, destined to be, and we all had our roles to play. But I simplified too much. The Greeks nearly had it right. We all have our parts to play, but the struggle is not between revolution and reaction. There is the party of war and the party of knowledge and the party of the farmer and the party of the artisan and the party of love – and all direct their members in their own interests, with the party of power primary but hardly directing any of the rest."

"Do you then believe in all the old gods and goddesses?"

"As types, personifications, yes. But not as actual deities. Nothing so romantic."

"But then where do we come from?"

"What does it matter? From dust we come and to dust we shall return. I suppose we must have been created in the beginning, but no one has paid us a bit of attention since, unless it is pull us this way or that. There is no all-knowing guiding hand."

"How very sad the world is to you." She actually sounded sympathetic.

"And your revolutions every generation?" I asked.

"A necessity for the parties to discover the way in which they might live together in that time and place. Jefferson was more flippant with human life than I could ever be – when one lives in a debating chamber instead of on the battlefields of a revolution, one can see blood as a hypothesis – but he was not wrong. Look at us – absolute monarchy, Republic, Terror – because the Republic was not so rational – the Convention, Bonaparte and war, restoration, constitutional monarchy, and now we try a republic over again, but with the bourgeoisie to guard against excess. Something will happen next – there is no end stage in which the future world will remain a perfect constant until the end of time. Either this republic will collapse as the first did and the next generation will try something else, or it will last its generation and the next generation will feel oppressed and we will begin again."

"You're even gloomier than I remembered."

"I have reason. And I always feared perhaps the Greeks had it right after all, that we grew progressively worse. I'm certain of that now. All the beautiful words seem to mean less, and if the Greeks thought they could not compete with their Homeric selves in honour and glory, what chance does the modern world have? There is more freedom, now, to choose one's own path in so many more cases, and that is a great advance for society. But it is not real freedom, and there is less community, and I don't know if this movement is up or down."

He excused himself then, but Hélène asked me to stay. "He has always been like this? None of this is new?"

"He may have just wanted to be shocking at first, but I think in the end he started to believe in his own nonsense. And then, well, the criminal classes are as heathen as any Africans. Even the Mohammedans believe in a god and a book, little good though it does them. But it is no use discussing it. He lives to shock, but I don't think he intends to overthrow the Pope. He thinks everyone – even me – is on this earth with a purpose, and everything we do is in service to that purpose. The fates have drawn it all out, and we are powerless to deviate from their course."

"And yet he does not believe in God."

"He doesn't need a god. You heard him – he needs several to direct his opposing factions. I suppose they tell the fates what to make all us human puppets do."

"How awful. How freeing and yet how awful. But if I had no choice but to marry you, and you had non choice but to be with that man in the yellow bedroom, how can he be angry with you when you were powerless to stop it?"

"And now you see why there is no use encouraging him. His morality and judgments are safely Christian. I think he truly does believe in purpose but doesn't much like religion, so when he was a child, he latched onto the Greeks as a way to shock everyone by professing something ridiculous. But that was in our youth. I fear he may actually believe what he told us today, in the realm of metaphor, but he won't admit that God has to be behind it."

"I've never heard such curious conversation. I rather enjoyed it, in a way. If he set out to shock me, he succeeded, though in an entertaining fashion."

"Then I believe he failed."

But it had been pleasant – he went out in public by choice, we all had a reasonably adult conversation, and no one fought. I decided he should do civilised things more often.

That determination lasted a week. Lucie came to excuse him from dinner. In her concern, she let slip that he had been injured in town. I found him in the kitchen, holding a fresh beefsteak over his left eye.

"Were you robbed or did you see the blacksmith?"

"Have you been following me?"

"If I had, I wouldn't have had to ask. Really, a man of your age. Does it hurt?"

"The embarrassment and the swelling are far worse than the pain."

"I hope it was not her father. The picture would be ludicrous."

"It was her brother, and it makes the picture no better. Her father was happy to see me. He feels the events of February were the vindication of his daughter's sacrifice that Lafayette's actions denied him in 1830. He was always a true believer. Unfortunately, he took me home, and his son is a reactionary."

I told the cook I would not be home for dinner.

"What are you going to do? Make the situation even more idiotic?"

"He attacked an invalid."

"I am not an invalid. I walked into town and back."

"You are quite patently not well."

He slumped over the table, beefsteak still firmly pressed to his eye, a thin trickle of its blood running along his chin. "Melancholy arising from displacement has no cure. Don't you find this place vomits memories upon you with every breath?"

"Of course. It's home."

"I do what I can. I walk and I swim for my health and try not to think of those who once walked and swum beside me. I visit the places of the past and pay my respects to the survivors of my folly in the hope that some of the voices will stay where they belong and not intrude on a perfectly innocuous day at Les Goudes. It is not right that Pontmercy pay his respects to me and I not do the same for M. Duchamp. But my existence does for others what this entire city does for me, and while I do not enjoy a black eye, I have had much worse that I deserved far less."

"Would you like to go into the mountains?"

He shook his head and finally put the beefsteak down. "That would be worse, like an exile. You need not worry – I won't be going back into town until I must leave. If the sight of the Chateau d'If weren't enough, now there is talk of sending those who were involved in this latest spat with the government into forcibly colonising Algeria. Is it a colony or a political prison – it can't long be both, for no legitimate colonists will ever go if they are to be surrounded by revolutionaries and rebellious Arabs. They will embark from here. They'll have to. Brought down on the railroad, much more secure against escape attempts, then directly led aboard ship and goodbye to civilisation. I wouldn't be able to look at them.

"There has been no good news in months, and in the summer, all one hears in town is news, and I don't particularly want to be in the way of it if everything else is going to be so damned raw. But I can't leave without feeling a failure. But my one duty in this place is done, with as much pleasure as Pontmercy's brought him."

"Shall I send for a doctor?"'

"Whatever for?"

"The eye."

"I can see perfectly well. I would appreciate if you could make my excuses to your wife. I think it best she not know the truth of this absence just as she is beginning to speak to me without fear or condescension."

I smiled. "Of course." He went up the servants stairs to his room; I told the cook I would be late for dinner, then sent the boy to have Lantes prepare the carriage.

I believe I thought I was going to chastise a blacksmith for attacking an invalid gentleman. The situation was already ridiculous, and my indignation did not make it more so.

Except Bernard Duchamp was a reasonable – and reasonably handsome – man. He apologised the moment he saw me, offered me a drink, and tried to explain himself.

"There is no excuse. It was a stupid, childish thing to have done. But you can understand. Like a ghost out of the past. You don't expect to walk into your kitchen and see a man you last saw twenty years ago and assume to be dead. I mean, he had to be dead if the Enjolras boy was dead – the Enjolras boy is dead, isn't he? He must be, the government sold his fancy house for the consumptives. But he is dead, isn't he? No more unhappy surprises in my kitchen courtesy of this revolution? I can't think of his name without remembering that month, and the police, and the funeral, and him coming and dragging it all up again. And his face – he got it as bad as Émilie, if the hand happened at the same time, but she died, and he lived, and giving him a reminder seemed to be the thing to do in the moment. Which is awful. Look at us! Our age, kids of our own, and I'm starting a back alley brawl more appropriate to a sixteen year old boy, the latest age at which one can lose one's senses. How best can I apologise?"

"By never mentioning his visit to anyone. It won't be repeated. All this dwelling on the past is not good for a man in his condition."

"It's not good for any of us, particularly as this new government wants to pretend there is no past. With your permission, monsieur, as might make up for this afternoon's folly, may I ask your advice on a political matter?"

I told him to go ahead, though I was focused more on the way his arms rippled under his rolled shirt sleeves than on anything he might have to say about politics.

"The local elections are in two weeks, and I don't know what to do. I never wanted this revolution. I never thought I deserved to have a vote – what would I do with a vote? Men who do bigger things than I do, who have educations, deserve the vote. Men like you, monsieur, who already had that privilege under the previous government. Universal suffrage can only be a mistake, but I can't put the country back to rights. So I've got a vote, and I don't know what to do with it, and as a gentleman who deserves more of a say than I do, I'd like you to tell me what to do. If I go down there and vote for a conservative, I'll be supporting a state of affairs I don't agree with at all, but he doesn't agree with it, either. But he won't particularly want my sort of people voting for him. But if I stay home, as I ought to do, then I won't have done anything about the mob voting for those démo-soc radicals."

"Vote for the conservative. What is done is done, but we must stop it from going further."

"Thank you, monsieur. I'll do just as you say."

All told, a satisfying visit. If Julien had to pick arguments – and it seemed he had no choice – it was best he stick to attractive strangers.


	9. Chapter 9

He did not vote in the local elections. M. Radet had procured papers for him, but his imprisonment had been translated into Paris residency, so he did not qualify to vote in the city of his birth. I went into town only to cast my own ballot, then joined Julien on the beach, where he was yet again passing the afternoon.

"Do you still swim? Or are you too much the bourgeois to dare?"

"I rarely have the company. But I could still beat you to the point."

"Is that a challenge?"

I started stripping my clothes off. "Yes." If I was going to regress to a sullen youth in his presence, I deserved the benefits as well as the emotional outbursts.

As I dived below the waves, I thought I heard a female shout, but when I came up for air, I saw no one on the beach. It was not a gull – I assumed it must have been Lucie, come to check on Julien. The race was unfair – I won, but I am taller and younger. And I was much the worse for the exertion, which may have meant that he let me win. The day was sweltering and even the sea was hot, but floating on my back, moving slowly inland with the waves, was far better than sitting in the stifling darkness of the house or trying to find a breeze on the beach. In the water wasn't a time for talking but a time for simply being. And it was surprisingly comfortable.

When we made our way back to the shore, someone had brought towels and a basket with wine and water and glasses.

"Did M. Ture join you out here?"

"Not in sport. He's a northerner."

"Do the children come down at all?"

I shook my head. "It would not be appropriate."

"But you still come."

"It is best that no one knows."

"Yes, I suppose so. Everyone is so concerned with social position, with what everyone else thinks."

"Everything I want is something no one must know."

"What do you want?" He was looking at the water, not at me, but there was a real seriousness in his tone and expression, as if he did, indeed, want the whole truth at last.

"In an ideal world?"

"Why not?"

"That you would take all this away. My wife, my children, my responsibility, the estate, the house in Paris, everything. So I can have my studio and my models and not worry that I should be doing something else. And, in an ideal world, at the end of the day, Sébastien waiting for me in a café, where we sit laughing with friends long into the night before falling into bed together. And the most important worry is if my latest piece will be accepted into the next Salon or if he finds a publisher for his poems."

"He writes poetry?" Julien asked, looking at me in some surprise.

"He used to. I used to paint. We could have been bohemians."

"You could never have been a bohemian. I knew plenty in my time – Courfeyrac lived under a garret-full – and I don't think you were ever going to find the beauty in self-inflicted poverty."

"Well, not purely, but Papa would have kept me on some sort of allowance. And Sébastien had money from his family until he broke with them. Which was long before my marriage, for the record."

"So he was hiding backstairs with you, and then in the Latin Quarter, and now backstairs again."

Hiding. "I suppose so. He didn't make a thing of it. I don't know what the fight was. I don't think it was anything terribly lurid. He is the second son, too – we should have been worthless together."

"Not worthless. You want to produce things for others. Art, literature – to sell, to publish, to make public the content of your soul. Not worthless. Of more worth than anything I aspired to."

"How can you say that?"

"If the world is rebuilt every generation, then anything I do is only valid for a generation. Then the world moves on. In one hundred years, even had I been successful, I would be meaningless, and in one thousand years, I would be nothing, not even one name amongst hundreds. But art – the soul – lasts forever. We talk our tragedies from the Greeks, our poetry from the Romans, our architecture from Egypt, our morals from the Jews of the Orient. Our souls are connected over thousands of years, our thoughts and feelings thousands of years old, but our politics are only of a generation."

"I don't think Dumas is going to last a thousand years."

"I doubt the Greeks thought Aristophanes would last two thousand."

"Have you read his latest?"

"No, Monte Cristo was painful enough."

"You read Monte Cristo?"

"I had hoped it might provide a metaphor. Unfortunately, it provided only a rather grating romp."

"Hélène enjoyed it. In fact, I think it is providing the metaphor you sought. She is starting to take an interest in your well being."

"So that I might avoid spending years bringing vengeance on faceless functionaries? Alas, I haven't a Turkish slave to assist me."

"No, I think she wants a happier ending than Dantès got. She told me that if this were a novel, you'd end up marrying the heroine – a widow of a certain age and education – and taking a seat in the Chamber of Deputies."

"A widow of a certain age and education," he repeated.

"I think she means a Mercédès who can keep up with you."

"How very – "

"Ridiculous?"

"Kind. It's really a very kind thing to wish. Why a widow?"

"Why not a widow?"

"Why so carefully specified? A woman of a certain age, of course. But why a widow? A spinster wouldn't do?"

"I suppose she thinks you need looking after."

"As do you. And a widow would have experience in that. But her very description is suffused with death, and in a novel, there has been death enough without continuing to remind the reader."

"But a spinster? She is the very emblem of lives not lived, and –" I caught myself.

"And there is already plenty of that," he finished.

"I didn't mean – "

"I know. You needn't apologise for putting voice to what is obvious. So. A widow of a certain age. Is this merely an idle thought, or should I worry that it will become a project?" He was amused by the whole thing, I could tell. That was why I had mentioned it, after all.

"I don't think I know anyone who could find you an appropriate widow."

"Does she?"

"I'm quite certain you are safe."

"She would not dare introduce me to anyone."

I did not answer, because at the time, I was sure he was right.

Marlon came to fetch us for dinner. "Isn't it a bit early?"

"Madame said you had been sea bathing. Baths are ready for you both, messieurs."

Madame? Was it not Lucie at all, but Hélène who had witnessed us?

On the way back to the house, I asked Julien, "If I were to bring my paints back out, would you sit for me?"

"Of course."

Not that my paints were in any condition for use. What tubes were left were rusted, all my good brushes looked picked at, and while I had good supplies of some pigments, I hadn't mixed my own paint in so long that the very idea sent me into a fit of apathy.

But about a week later, we were set up on the terrace so I might essay a new portrait of Julien. The underpainting was done and dry, and with perfect timing, Hélène appeared as I began to put in more detail.

"May I watch?" she asked, not quite directing the question at either Julien or me.

I looked to him for permission, and he deferred to me with a gesture. "If you like," I replied. I was only putting in broad swathes of colour – not terribly interesting, I thought. She stood and watched in silence until I stopped to let that layer dry.

"It is good to see you with your paints again. I was afraid I had drive that out of you."

"No, it wasn't you at all. I swear."

"You must let him start over," she said to Julien in a surprisingly friendly manner. "He has you in such strict profile, one would think he were auditioning you to replace the king on the coins. What? Someone must be designing new coins, mustn't they?" she appealed to Julien.

"Of course. I should think we should see them in circulation any day now – six months should be ample time."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't speak up at all. No one wants to hear my little jokes."

"Do not trouble yourself so, madame." He smiled. "It is a far more flattering thought than the truth."

"A three-quarter view would still hide that," she asserted, running a finger down her own cheek.

"What Julien meant was that the strict profile is easier, and my poor powers are not up to more."

"You don't believe that, do you?" she asked Julien.

"I've never seen Charles' work, so his assertions on that score are not for me to judge."

She looked at me in confusion, then back at him. "Did you never actually look at the paintings in my sitting room?"

"He's been in your sitting room?"

"Don't be ridiculous – he's seen the whole house except for the nursery. But did you not pay attention to them?"

"Small genre painting in the style of the seventeenth century, Dutch if I had to guess, and a rather grey seascape with fishing boats, likely of similar vintage. Why?"

"Hélène, really."

"Why cannot I tell him? They're not originals. Charles made them." Julien looked surprised, I felt embarrassed, and Hélène kept talking with pride. "On our honeymoon, we spent a week in Florence, every day at the Uffizi. Charles got a permission to copy, so there we were, every day at the Uffizi, drawing statues and copying paintings. Other people would come up and watch him work, and it made me so happy to tell them that he was my husband."

"He doesn't need to hear this."

She ignored me. "That week in the Uffizi was the happiest time of my life. I was so proud to be married to a man of such recognisable parts. How I wish we had never moved on to Rome and Venice," she trailed off.

"Yes, well, I'm out of practice, now."

"I should – I'll send someone out. You both must be thirsty."

"You married the wrong woman."

"Isn't this advice rather too late?"

"You know it as well as I do. You should never have married her in the first place – why ever did you do it?" He shook his head. "Even after everything you have done, she still wants to love you. Is it true?" he asked after a pause.

"In the daylight, everything was great. She learned how to say 'That is my husband – isn't he wonderful?' in three languages. But if you want to hear the truth, ask about the nights. Yes, I married the wrong girl. But mother would never have let me marry a prostitute, and only a whore could have been the right girl for those nights. That we have two children is a miracle."

"When did you stop painting?"

I though about it. "I don't remember," I had to answer. "Years ago. Even with commercial paints, it just takes too much time. You have to care about it. It's not like dabbling in watercolours."

"So why now?"

One of the servants came out with a pitcher of something cool. When she left, I replied, "Did I ever tell you about the painting? After your death, I thought of you quite often, and after father took me to the next Salon, I conceived an inflated sense of my own abilities and started making studies for a martyrdom of the sons of Symphorosa. It was morbid enough to be found with sketches of what I thought dismemberment must look like – particularly if you recall I had no access to the dissection rooms and had never seen a human limb in anything but normal, healthy attachment to the shoulder – but mother had a fit when she found the one piece where I had attempted to put pain to canvas was you in the guise of St Julian. She burned it all, of course, and father started paying an art student to tutor me regularly in the belief that with supervision, my energies would be directed elsewhere."

"And now you intend to finish the piece?"

"Not at all. It was never a good idea. I don't know what I intend, but it feels surprisingly good to have a brush in my hand again."

That evening, when I heard voices in Hélène's sitting room, I knew it was because Julien had gone to look at my work. And I left them alone. Julien hadn't seen any of my work. I had gone on for months about the Beaux Arts, and he hadn't once hinted that he thought I was a deluded fool, but he had never really had sympathy. I would not have had sympathy for just anyone claiming talent, either. I would never have anything accepted in the Salon, in all likelihood, but until the advent of the daguerreotype, I know men with less ability than I made their livings with a brush. He had listened, but he had not believed me. I know because he took our sittings much more seriously after that evening.

Not that the sittings actually went anywhere. I was too out of practice to make a good job of it. But still I kept going, focusing on fixing one small section at a time.

One day, when I believe I was working on the ear, he spoke. "I wish you had not mentioned the fantasy of the widow. I thought I was doing well enough until then."

I apologised, but only with half my brain.

"It is not your fault – how could you know there was anything in it."

"I thought the idea would amuse you, that's all."

"It did. For a time. But then, here of all places, where one would think I had enough else on my mind, I began to think of her again. I'd never thought her in the guise of a widow. I wasn't nearly so kind as your wife."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You asked me once why I never married, and I said it was that I had never been in love. This is true. But it is not the whole truth."

"There was a girl?" I stopped painting to look at him.

"A young lady," he corrected. "A girl implies a grisette, a mistress, a female of no real importance to you. Of course there were grisettes, but the young lady I mean was of a vastly higher calibre. But we only met once – how could I said I was in love with her? The image has overtaken the reality until I cannot tell them apart anymore."

There were grisettes? Julien? Julien and grisettes? Julien and a girl of a far higher calibre? Julien and women who were not political toms?

He kept going, as if the dam had finally burst in this region of his soul. "She was why I thought of turning back on the day we went to the barricades again. I thought of her, of going to her rather than throwing myself headlong into a riot for which I had no real taste, of making promises I perhaps could not keep. But that would have meant going to the Lauriers to inquire for her address, and when I thought more carefully, I was certain they would have fled to the country already, due to the cholera, so I went on without her, because I believed in the idea, in the protest if not the exact means, and I thought I could find her in the autumn if the cholera spared us all."

"The Lauriers?" A political tom, apparently, but known to the Lauriers?

"I met her at one of their balls. She was out of place, and so was I. I never saw her again – possibly I spent too long with her and made a scene so that she was never invited again. If that is the case, the joke is on them. I cannot even remember her name."

"If she was at the Lauriers, then she was perfectly marriageable. Why didn't you go calling?"

"I had more on my mind. None of us thought four months later we would be dead. She knew my reputation and liked me for it – and, well, in the end, I didn't even really think of her again until a few weeks in solitary pushed me into a dream world. And yet I never thought she would marry. How I hope that she did. I always pictured her trying to keep a small school afloat."

"A school?" How appropriate for him, but for someone who had been invited to the Lauriers?

"She was foreign, Irish if I remember rightly, come to live with French relatives who knew the Lauriers. We spoke of my politics and women's education, if I haven't wholly reinvented the conversation, and I cannot remember her name. It was something harsh and English. I always think of her as Diane, but I don't think it is actually her name. Perhaps it was Diana, but her surname is long gone."

"I'm still on terms with the Lauriers."

"Don't you dare go looking for her. Real life should not always replace the images of dreams." That was rich, coming from him. "That's what grisettes are for, in any case, to bring the dream images of beauty and selflessness to a crashing halt in the pleasant mire of working class laps."

"How would you know?"

"I was a student in Paris. Did you think I was a priest? I had friends who could have written a guide to the Latin Quarter and the Marais, and being neither penniless nor otherwise attracted, of course I indulged in my rights as a student."

"You never had girls around when I sneaked out to visit you."

"Death focuses the mind. I set aside youthful pleasure when the time came to focus solely on the revolution. You know what that is like."

I did. I rebelled at the comparison of my mother's illness and the violent death of that girl, but yes, death focuses the mind on responsibility, duty, adult life. But at the time, all I could focus on was how little I had ever known him. Grisettes? Bohemians? Could he really have been so profligate in his life as well as his studies? And there had been a girl. A girl who, even if she had come without a dowry, would have relieved our parents enough to consent to the marriage. A proper life for us both had been in his grasp. And he chose a riot instead.

I should have hated him for the secrets, the lies, the falseness of his entire being. But what had he really done? Kept the adult portions of his life silent from a child. I saw him so little, really, that he was more dream than real. I hated myself for being such a fool for so long. I hated him for letting me be a fool still. I hated my parents for never correcting me, though I had tried to hide my own feelings from them so how could they have corrected what they never knew? Did they even know any better than I? Would he really have told his father about his legions of grisettes? The woman – Mme Feuilly – she had said nothing – but did she know? Or did Feuilly never tell her all of what he knew? Women should not know everything, but the working classes are different. Decent women are not seamstresses or artists' models. Both portraits were done after that girl's death. We had no likeness of him before – he wouldn't sit. He had always been serious – but had he always been serious in that way? Should I have known? Were there signs? Some mysteries have no answer – we cannot go back to look for what we missed.

I hated everyone for five minutes; I hated myself all evening; but then it all dissolved into loneliness, a fracture of the world where the images that had sustained me stayed fixed while I floated on, helpless as an iceberg in the current.

A light was still on in Hélène's room. I tapped at the door. It was not a knock. I was too unsure to knock.

Hélène was seated at her dressing table, brushing her hair. She half-turned to address me. "What is it, Charles? It's late."

I felt guilty for having come. "Might I sleep here tonight?"

"It is rather warm." Already she had turned back to the mirror.

"I mean sleep." My mood must have come through my voice because she set down her brush.

"Something has happened." If she meant it as a question, I did not know how to reply. She addressed the image of me in the mirror. "I wish you would tell me. After what I have seen, do you still think me too innocent to understand?" She turned to look at me properly, but I did not know what to answer. "Come to bed," she said in resignation. The snuffing of the lamp left the room flooded with pale blue moonlight, and she looked quite vulnerable in it.

The linen was cool. We arranged ourselves as we believed a married couple ought to do. S he has always been too small in my arms. I do not know what to do with her, and she tenses uncontrollably. But what else does one expect in a marriage such as ours?

"Talk to me," she whispered. "I know you've something on your mind."

"You talk to me."

She thought for a moment, then chatted of something of no import. After some time, she realised I was no longer listening because she broke off, clasped my hand, and asked, "Would you please tell me what is wrong?"

The pressure of her hand meant more to me at that time than anything she could have said. "I don't know who anyone is anymore."

"Don't be absurd." But her voice was sympathetic.

"But it's true."

"Charles, I don't think you've ever known anyone. What makes you see that now?"

"Julien isn't what I thought."

"Of course not. I don't know what you were at with that Frankenstein's monster description. He's nothing of the sort."

"So you do like him."

"I don't like what he has done, but I cannot help liking him, in a way. His solemnity and understanding of the awkwardness of the situation are endearing. Really, if it were not for his face, it would be very easy to pretend things were different."

"And you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Don't sound so bitter. Yes, I would. I think he would be happier."

"He's proud of what he did." I think I rather snapped at her, but she didn't seem to notice.

"But not of what was done to him."

"How would you know?"

"The happiest I've seen him was after mass at Majeure. He shouldn't be so afraid to be among people."

"But that's what I mean. He didn't used to be vain."

"He didn't used to have half his face torn open."

"I thought he was an intellectual, a great thinker, a martyr to his ideas, above all the petty thoughts and jealousies and alliances of everyday life. But he's not. He never really was."

"Of course. He's human."

"He was supposed to be better. He acted as if he were better. I told him about my – my – _tastes_ because he was better." She did not reply but she did stiffen. "This is your fault."

"How is any of this my fault?" she snapped.

"I told him about your little idea, the widow of a certain age."

"Charles!"

"I thought he would be amused. And I was right, but for the wrong reasons. Turns out, there was a girl."

"Really?" She sounded interested, excited. "Why do you sound so disappointed?"

"I thought he was above all that. He told me today that in his youth, he had been with grisettes."

"There's no need to be disgusted. I know you have a very low opinion of women, but thankfully, the vast majority of men are not quite like you. Why shouldn't he have been a man and taken his due? He was certainly handsome in his youth – indeed, half his face is still enviable – and I'm sure he would have been a kind and attentive lover."

"Why are you on his side?"

"I'm on no one's side. You see what you want to see, not what is there. You wanted me to be a fool so there would be no shame running around behind my back. You wanted a wife who would be so grateful to be married at all that it wouldn't matter what you did. You wanted your lover to be wholly loyal to you. You wanted your brother to be a saint. But are any of us really what you want?" Hélène sounded weary rather than angry, as if it were an old argument she had already repeated over and over, though it was certainly new to me. "If you wanted someone you could treat like that, why did you take me and not Florence? You danced with her, too. That was as much audition as you gave me. Was it because your mother would approve more of my looks? The shy one rather than the plain one?"

"Not at all. I liked you. I thought, 'Since I must get married, I would rather spend my life with this girl.'"

"It's no use trying to flatter me now, Charles. You squandered that opportunity when you betrayed me."

"I misjudged you. And Sébastien."

"You never wanted to know me. Did you ever want to know him?"

"I don't know that he ever wanted me to know him. What I know of him since he left has surprised me, but I don't think I have the right to be surprised."

"Then why do you feel so betrayed to discover that your brother is more ordinary than you thought when you only knew him for the same amount of time?"

"He is my own blood. My father adored him. How can I have been wrong about someone so close?"

"You never wanted anyone close."

"Julien didn't, either."

"Do you know that? Or do you think that?"

I sighed. "I think that."

"Just because he doesn't want you doesn't mean he doesn't want someone. Tell me more about his girl."

"What?"

"His girl. You said there was a girl."

"He didn't say much. She was foreign. Connected to the Lauriers somehow. A bluestocking."

"Oh, how perfect!"

"He doesn't remember her name, and he doesn't want you to go tracking her down. If she's even still in the country, they only met once, long ago, and it wouldn't be some fairytale ending."

"Life is never a fairytale ending. Let him keep his dreams, and may they stay dreamlike and perfect. For her sake as much as his own. I was once courted by a dream, a handsome young artist with soft eyes and gentle hands. At least the illusion did not last beyond our wedding night. I would not wish it on another woman."

"Hélène." I tried to sound comforting, but I've never really known what to do for her. For anyone.

"You should never have betrayed me, Charles. If you had told me the truth, I might have married you anyway. To be safe from babies, to have the protections of marriage without the most odious obligations. It is the betrayal I object to, the form rather than the tastes. That was a relief, really, that our troubles would have come to any woman you married. But I could have been free – you could have been free! – and you saddled us with deceit."

"I need children. I cannot allow the family to die out."

"Then I suppose we were always doomed." She shifted a little. "Go to sleep."

But I couldn't sleep. Her breathing slowly became regular, but I was wide awake. Was this me? No one trusted me, but was that because I was the Judas of their lives? Could they smell some stench on me I could not? I have always been as honest as I can be. I have always believed others were straight with me. But Sébastien had never trusted me as I had trusted him. Was I ever really the handsome artist with soft eyes and gentle hands? I was the thwarted artist, the hesitant lover, the lost boy who knew he would not be found among so many strangers. Feeling sick with the lie of what I wanted, that I wanted comforting caresses from a woman I did not love who did not love me, I slipped out to return to my own room. A light showed under Julien's door – he, too, was sleepless. Unless – I felt the sweat trickle down my side. Unless he was not alone. Such an interest he had taken in Lucie. Her welfare, her position, her appearance. Was his interest not as innocent as I had presumed? I hurried to my room rather than witness what I feared.

In the morning, I saw the Hélène had left a note at breakfast.

_Forgive me, it slipped my mind last night. I have made an appointment with the photographer, as you had asked. He will come Thursday afternoon at two. Your brother's presence would be awkward, so if it could be avoided, that would be ideal._

This was hardly a time to tell Julien to bugger off. In any case, he was never about mid-afternoon if the sun permitted his worship. So I said nothing to anyone. Which was a simple enough matter, as he seemed to be avoiding me as much as I was avoiding him. I didn't see him, and there were no messages or questions about continuing our sittings.

The photographer came at the appointed time, he set up his equipment, and we posed. But Hélène wanted a larger plate as well, and as we held the pose a second time, Julien appeared on the terrace behind the photographer, hatless but still dressed, having not been swimming at all. The children began to squirm, and in the end, they looked slightly underexposed, while Hélène and I had merely remained frozen in our distress.

"Papa, who is that?" Mathieu asked. Julie had buried her face in her mother's shoulder.

"Please forgive the intrusion," Julien began to apologise. But then he saw the photographer's apparatus and his whole bearing changed. "Is this a camera for the daguerreotype? I've read what I can get my hands on, but I've never seen one." He somehow combined his strict public uprightness with the excitement of a child and began asking about nitrates and fixatives and I confess, I didn't understand a word. The photographer was an animated in his explanations as Julien was in his questions. Hélène gave me a pointed look as she carried Julie into the house; Mathieu continued pulling at the skirt of my coat.

"Papa!"

I knelt down to him. "That is your uncle Julien. My brother. He is staying with us for a bit."

"Why is he so ugly?"

I looked at Julien, but he and the photographer were still engaged so that he hadn't overheard. "That is a very impolite question. Many years ago, a very mean man who did not like him attacked him with a knife."

"Is he hiding from that man?"

"No. He is just staying with us for the summer. He lives in Paris, but no one stays in Paris in the summer."

"Why wasn't he here last summer?"

Why, indeed. "Things are a little strange this year." I thought I heard something about Algeria come from the adult conversation, but Mathieu would not let up.

"Is that why you're home so much?"

"Yes."

"I like it when things are strange." But then he clung to me, and I saw Julien had joined us.

"M. Fauret has offered to show me his studio." He knelt down beside me, a little stiffly. "You must be Mathieu." Mathieu clung to me just a little more tightly. "My name is Julien." Such softness, such gentleness of tone – I wished Hélène could see how harmless he truly was.

"Papa says a man made your face like that."

"That is true." No embarrassment, no judgment, simply a calm acknowledgment of the fact.

"That wasn't very nice."

He smiled – close-lipped, but true. "No, it was not."

"Does it hurt?"

He paused a moment before answering. "Not anymore. It happened a very long time ago, long before you were even born." I noticed then that he had hidden his left hand in the folds of his coat.

"Can I touch it?"

"Mathieu!"

"It's all right. Yes, you can touch it." And so my son did what I had not the courage to ask.

"It feels like my rubber ball under his skin!" he announced with pride.

"Kiss your uncle and go upstairs." Mathieu kissed him directly on his scar and ran inside. "I'm sorry about that."

"Which part?"

"Mathieu."

"I rather enjoyed it. There is something to be said for directness."

"So you are making friends with M. Fauret."

"The vast majority of his clients have no knowledge of chemistry, nor do any of the other local photographers. He is eager to show me an experiment he is trying with an English process."

"That would require going back into town."

"His studio is in the heights, but he laments he has no view of the harbour. The coincidence is perfect. The marin is kicking up rather early – I would be swimming if the swells weren't so high. The force of the wind should hit us any time now, I wouldn't wonder. Please apologise to your wife for me."

"You should apologise to her yourself. You know full well she doesn't bite."

"But she has been so careful to keep me away from the children, and I've botched that completely."

"It had to happen, and I'm glad it did happen."

"Your son is charming."

"I'm happy you think so. I am sorry – I should have put my foot down and insisted on this. If we had spoken to him before, he wouldn't have asked such questions. You are all right, aren't you? It doesn't still hurt."

"No, the occasional pain is in the leg and the hand. The face merely itches. Merely," he repeated thoughtfully. "No, it is perversely annoying on a bad day, but it is nothing compared to the rest in the winter damps."

"Perhaps you shouldn't return to Paris."

"Don't be absurd. Why not?"

"The damps."

"Freedom in Paris will amply recompense for the pain. Why would I give up the intellectual centre of the world when Marseille is damp and cold enough in winter?"

"I meant that you might consider emigrating."

"The Algeria fiasco? To be one of the oppressors or one of the oppressed? Do you suggest the same to every gout-ridden bourgeois?"

"Actually, I thought the Indies. Did I hear something about Algeria when you were chatting with Fauret?"

"He was chatting with me, if we are to be precise. Somehow he developed the notion that I was with the army in Algeria. I'm rather loath to correct him. I never agreed with the Algeria mess, I hate that the transitional government is maintaining and expanding it with this shipment of June squabblers, and yet what a lovely opposition to the truth such a belief could be. One could even talk about the unsuitability of the whole scheme from a position of perceived knowledge."

"You must have told him something."

"He was chattering on about my face, such an odd excitement – such texture, such detail, and in someone who can understand the worth to an artist, monsieur – I didn't dare say anything more when he asked than that even failed revolutions leave their marks. I suppose, in the end, I am too much the gentleman to be believed caught up in any of the riots I seem to have missed these years gone."

But it was not just that – it was his own success in the past couple of months. Enough Mediterranean sun that he looked as if he had been working in it for years. Instead of shunning the visitor, as he might have done at his arrival, his wanderings and whatever he was doing in Les Goudes had steeled him for strangers so that he could resume his erect bearing and charge in, defying Fauret to treat him with anything other than the esteem he deserved. Which is probably how he had tried to appear to Radet, in his dark and filthy cell, though with greater success in this more congenial environment, with better preparation. The vanity did not even surprise me now, though in other circumstances I knew he would chafe at the idea of being thought the type of conservative who would join the army and go happily oppressing the world. But there is sympathy when Arabs claw your face, not when the perpetrator is a thief with whom you share a cell.

"Everyone stares," he went on, "even you at times, as if you are caught out by the reality when you expect the memory. Even Lucie on occasion. But to be examined instead of stared at, to have interest instead of fear, genuine curiosity in the thing itself more than in the circumstances in which you came by it – all the embarrassment of the truth will come out in the end, of course, but it is pleasant to see such innocence now. I think he cared more to know what instrument did it than what man, to tell the truth. I don't know that I'll correct his beliefs until it becomes wholly necessary."

"You can have the carriage any time you need."

"Thank you."

"Speaking of Lucie," I began tentatively.

"Yes?"

"Everything is – she is not – servants must be inviolate, Julien."

"What?"

"I had assumed she was safe, even when you sought to give her more money, dress her up, spend all your time with her. I hope my confidence was not misplaced."

It was hard enough to spit the words out, and when he just looked at me, I feared I had been right, that something would have to be done about the grotesque situation. But then he started to laugh – really, to laugh – and I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment.

"The staff – including Lucie – are sacred, I assure you. Is this why you've avoided me all week? You don't want to walk in on a scene as your wife did." But he concluded gravely, "She is useful to me, and not in that way. In public, she appears to be my daughter, and that in itself makes her more useful than any male servant could be. Her presence gives me legitimacy, even if it is only in my own mind, and I need that. I need to feel that I am permitted in the places I wish to go, to do the things I wish to do. A gentleman and his daughter, no matter how rough he may look, have a different expectation than does a battered single man. She has learned my moods, and I wish to keep her. And if I can do for her half as much as she is doing for me, then I will be a happy man."

So he knew, and probably encouraged, what Lucie believed the fishermen thought. And he was probably right, that an invalid father and his daughter were more welcome, not only in Les Goudes but in Paris and Marseille, than he would be alone or in servile male company. Hélène had said he was happy at Majeure – his crutch was not there, but we were, and we were as legitimate as could be, particularly in the dull colours of half-mourning Hélène will not take off until November. The perfect bourgeois couple. Legitimacy I was happy to give him, however he might achieve it.

After dinner that evening, I took a turn on the terrace. Hélène was in her sitting room, and without intending to eavesdrop, I strode past and glanced in as Julien was making his apology. I was not silent, but neither of them seemed to remark my even paces across the flagstones. On my second or third pass, I saw why he had laughed at the very idea he even consider Lucie an object of that sort of conquest. I saw Julien on his knees before my wife, a hand on the arm of her chair, as she looked into his eyes and caressed his scarred cheek. He had taken my instructions to heart.

What right had I to be angry? I had betrayed her, so I did not deserve fidelity. I wanted to be rid of her, and she knew she should never have married me. She had even insisted that Julien would be a kind and attentive lover, the very sort of man I could never be to a woman. But wasn't that just like a woman, to think what was good for the gander was good for the goose? All women are trollops when given a chance.

I was angry because I wanted to be rid of her. Because I had told him to take her. Because the last time she, or anyone, for that matter, had looked at me that way had been on our wedding night. The last moment before my first betrayal turned everything to shit. Because even then, I had believed I wanted to do what I was doing, I wanted to do what I was supposed to do. I wanted to marry her, I wanted to try to love her, I wanted to father children with my pretty wife and have that perfectly respectable life. But I couldn't do any of it, and now she repaid me in adultery, as I had repaid her. She hadn't been avoiding him out of hate but out of temptation. And now, there they were, leaving me out in the dark.


	10. Chapter 10

Only a few days later, as I walked past his room one morning, I could not help noting that the door was open. I glanced in and saw him huddled in a corner of the floor, in a state I was ashamed to recognise. A rustle behind me alerted me to Lucie's appearance with a basin of water. I attempted to address her, but she rebuffed me. "Excuse me, monsieur," she almost snapped. Julien did not look up at the sound of our voices or at the rustle of her skirts. In her haste, she neglected to shut the door on me, so I was able to watch as she bathed his face and babbled at him like a nursemaid. Only when he seemed to shake himself awake did she note her mistake. "Forgive me, monsieur," she apologised quietly as she shut the door in my face.

I did not dare go into town – instead, I sent a messenger to the office to bring anything important to me. Julien himself appeared in my study later that morning, looking as if he had not slept but completely calm.

"Is there something I can do for you?" I asked with what I hoped was the proper sympathy.

"I hoped I might go into town tomorrow."

That was unexpected. "To see Fauret?" He nodded. "Whatever you like. One of the grooms can be trusted with the coupé."

"And I thought it might be time to return to the lessons we had begun before you left Paris." How conveniently he omitted that he had chased me out of Paris.

"I rather thought I had bored you enough with trade."

"I thought I might be of use. I know you used to go abroad frequently and you have been kept from it these past six months and more. If it is business that keeps you here, I might be able to help. I hope I have not kept you home against your will."

Kept me home against my will? No, I would far rather be at home rather than leave you alone with my wife, I thought. He made no mention at all of his morning fit, and I did not know precisely how to bring up the subject myself. "Let me consider it," I told him. Hélène had put him up to it – she had to have done it. She had reproved me before for leaving her alone at length with only servants for protection. Now that she fancied him, Julien was the perfect solution, so perfect that I would be better out of the way. I already knew my answer, but it was better to let them think me still in the dark. "I will let you know in a few days."

"Very well. Please forgive the intrusion."

He went into town as planned the next afternoon and spent dinner telling us everything he had learned. His constant references to chemical reactions – it was a reminder that he had studied medicine at one time – were over my head, but Hélène flirted shamelessly by pretending a strong interest in his conversation.

"What was that?" I asked her after dinner, perhaps a bit sharply.

"Let go of me, Charles," she ordered coldly. I dropped her arm. "What was what?"

"Don't tell me you understood what he was going on about at dinner."

"But I did. It's terribly interesting, isn't it, what science has led us to."

"I don't appreciate scenes like that in my house."

"Scenes like what? He was eager to talk, and I was genuinely interested. And even if I were not, it would have been polite to feign interest."

"That was not feigned."

"That's right," she replied with a deliberate evenness. "I just told you. I was genuinely interested."

"I don't like it."

"Then you should not have left me alone so often with only books for company."

"This is not my fault."

"Nothing is ever your fault, Charles," she sighed. "Kindly explain what you mean by 'this' today so I may take the inappropriate blame."

If I accused her, she would deny it and possibly even laugh at me. The only thing for it was to wait and watch – and keep them from being alone together at length.

But as soon as I formed that resolve, I received a message from the office. One of our sailors had been picked up in the Indies – there had been a shipwreck, and he had just arrived in Marseille. I had to spend several days at the office, interviewing him and speaking with the insurance adjusters and minding all the minutia of failed business.

It is hard to care as much as one is expected to when the event has already passed. The vessel had wrecked weeks ago, and the survivor could give only overdue testimony. It was not even a thrilling tale. Storms had come up, the compass was hit by lightning, a fool steered directly onto a reef at the harbour opening because he could not read the chart when at last they found the harbour – the wreck itself was a tale of incompetence and stupidity, not of the power of the sea and the might of God, and it ended in most of the crew jumping ship and signing on with whalers headed for the South Sea. I cannot even expect fidelity from the men I pay. At least the captain had died in the hurricane – he and the first mate alone did not betray me.

My mind wandered back to Julien and Hélène as the insurance men asked their questions. I have loyalty from neither family nor friends, and I cannot even purchase it through generous wages. The business is not what it would be if we were English. My father smuggled his way through the wars, which earned him our fortune and provided more excitement than peace ever can. Which is strange to think about, really, because my father was a man of calm thought, like Julien, not at all the pirate one thinks would amass a fortune through smuggling and then keep it by making friends with the English when the Emperor fled. But it must have been exciting. More exciting than watching your country lead the world in art and literature and science but trade with the English for cottons and tea instead of bringing in those goods under their imperious noses. We cannot even finance factories and railroads with any certainty, and our peasants, well – we still have peasants. One never thinks of the English as having peasants. My country clumps along behind the times, my employees would rather go for whalers, my wife would rather have my brother, and my brother would fill his life with my cast offs if only I would step out of the way.

"No, it won't do," I told him later. "You're not suited to it. You may be bored, and you may pick up the basics easily enough, but you'd hate it once it were really in your hands. Leave business to the men who enjoy it. I do, whenever I can."

He thanked me for my consideration. I repaid him by sending for Lucie.

"What did I see last week?" She would not look at me, and I knew she knew exactly what I meant. "Lucie?"

"I don't know what you mean, monsieur."

"He told me that you knew his moods. What did that mean?"

"That is for M. Julien to answer, monsieur."

"Are you talking back to me?"

"No, monsieur!"

"What are his moods?" I asked firmly. "Are they fits?"

She crumpled under the pressure. "No, monsieur. I don't know what to call them, really. It's just like the day I found him on the beach and came to you. I don't know where he goes. It's like a fit, in that something sets him off and he's dead to the world, but it isn't dangerous. He just sits there, staring into space. He'll stare like mad, for hours, if someone doesn't pull him out of it. But it isn't as if he has convulsions or anything."

"Was he like this in Paris?"

She stopped and started so many times that I was not entirely certain of the veracity of her answer. "Not quite so badly. Well, no, well, not so strongly, but more often. Maybe. But he was worse in every other way." She insisted with an unusual firmness, "He has been so much better here, monsieur. And maybe, when we go back, this will go away, too."

"How often has this happened here?"

"Once or twice, maybe. No more."

"But you don't worry about him wandering around by himself?"

"Oh, no. I'm usually with him when he goes out, but he's always safe in public. I think something like it was about to happen on the train, but the carriage was very full and with so many other people, he never quite went off. I think it's a fit of memory – something catches him and off he goes. He has that look on his face, like he's thinking of something, but he doesn't quite come around the way a person lost in thought ought to. But with other people around, always talking and staring and making noise, who can concentrate on anything?"

"Had he been like that all night?"

"I don't know, but he must have been. He was still dressed."

Had Hélène set him off? What was he thinking of? Her? Isabelle Laurier? His Irish girl? Some grisette?

And then I realised – he was thinking of all of them and none of them. He had not been staring out to Africa when I found him on the beach. He had been looking much closer, at the walls of his cell. Just as when I had brought him home. If it was a fit of memory, it was that memory, the dead man remembering the coffin. Was it the memory of the memory? He had said that he was not well, that the air here was saturated with the past. If a memory snatched at him, and he remembered last remembering that thing whilst in prison, did he stay in that memory of remembering and forget where he was now? If that were the case, Paris would be no better once he truly got out and about. He should have gone into the mountains for the summer. And he should emigrate. Not to the Indies, but perhaps to one of the German states or even to America, to a place with neither memories nor language to remind him of his past.

"How was he worse in Paris if he was not having these fits with such virulence?"

"I don't know that I should tell you, monsieur."

"Was he ill? Is he ill? Would sending for a doctor help at all?"

"He wasn't that sort of ill. We – I'm sorry, monsieur, we knew it was wrong, but it was all we could do. He wouldn't eat unless we brought him in the kitchen with us. He would only eat if he was being watched, and the only person he would see was M. Radet, and he hardly ever went out. He only kept going to those meetings because M. Radet was there. After you left, he stayed inside, mostly, with the curtains drawn, and had me read to him when his eyes wouldn't bear it anymore, even in May, when the weather turned beautiful and you'd think he'd go strolling in the park every day. But here – he breakfasts alone and actually eats, he spends most of his time outdoors, he talks to strangers – he is so much better that I don't mind the fits. They aren't dangerous."

"If you were his nurse, would you want him to stay here always?"

She looked up at me. "I can't tell him what to do. He says we will return when the soldiers leave."

"But if you could?"

"I would like him to stay."

To choose between his health and my marriage was a false dichotomy – my marriage was a tragedy before he arrived, so he had merely turned it into a farce. One might think that an improvement until one remembers that both genres require a victim.

Yet I was annoyed when he did not appear for dinner that evening. He was not actively seducing my wife, but he was also not living up to his duties as a guest. I sent for Lucie again as we sat at the dinner table, waiting to be served. "What does it mean, he is ill?"

She flushed. "It is rather embarrassing, monsieur."

"For you or for him?"

"We were out this afternoon. The figs are ripe."

"And now you have no desire for dinner and he has a stomachache?" Hélène asked.

"Something like that, madame."

"I don't know if it is childish or charming," she said when Lucie had left. "I suppose I am rather surprised it did not happen earlier."

"They had been spending a great deal of time at Les Goudes."

"Exercise must fortify the appetite."

The figs were excellent – we were brought some with the cheese at the end of the meal. But it was the next day that the full extent of the afternoon's adventure became known. I had been to the office to finish the necessary paperwork from the wreck, and Hélène was waiting for me when I returned home.

"You need to speak with your brother," she told me firmly.

"About what?"

"I do not want him near the children."

"What happened?"

"Yesterday somehow devolved into a _family_ fig harvest," she announced with a doomed grandeur I recalled from her discovery of Sébastien.

"Was anyone hurt? Was anyone scared?"

"Mathieu found it inordinately exciting."

"The nurse was with them at all times, wasn't she?"

"That is not the point. I'll have to sack her. She knew she was not to allow him near the children."

"You are overreacting."

"I am overreacting? I asked for one thing, that he be kept away from the children. Twice now, that simple request has been ignored. The first was an accident. I did not like it, but I will let it go. One cannot control the weather, and I can see that it was good for him to meet the photographer. What I cannot abide is to be deliberately ignored by my servants."

"All right, the nurse will have to be sacked. But there's nothing wrong with him. He's perfectly harmless. I thought you had come around to liking him."

"It isn't about that. It was better when they did not know he existed because then there were no questions I cannot answer. I don't want him to meet any of our friends, either, for the same reason. What explanation can there be that will not reflect poorly on us? His very existence taints us. It was one thing to hear of him when he was dead. It was in the past, long before I ever knew you, and here you were to rectify the damage done to your family's reputation. But now? Here he is, an unrepentant convict."

"What do you want me to do? Ask him to leave? Send him away? He is ill. He is my brother!"

"He is not ill, and if he were, I don't believe it would be catching. His health is not the point. I don't want him teaching republicanism to my children."

"I don't want that, either, but there is a great difference between acknowledging his existence and teaching his beliefs. Is anyone physically hurt?"

"Of course not. Mathieu thought it the most exciting thing to happen all summer."

"I will speak to him. And he does plan to leave. But do you really want me to send him away before he is ready to go?"

"I don't know. But I did not want to have to explain his presence to the children. Or to the staff, to be perfectly frank. It does not need to be known all over Marseille that we have been harbouring a convict."

"Now you are exaggerating." The irregularities were surely already known all over Marseille.

"I neither expected nor wanted any of this. Why can I not have this one little thing?"

"They are my children, too."

"You're hardly around for that to matter."

"So if it were not for the children, you'd happily trade me for Julien? Perhaps I should simply take my children – my children you never wanted in the first place – and leave you to it."

"Now you are being ridiculous," she said coldly. Her frigid demeanour simply angered me more.

"Do you want me to be the head of this house? Very well, then. I _order_ that _my_ children be allowed to see _my_ brother whenever they want. And, if it were not that the suggestion would offend him, I would wish that he would take charge of Mathieu's education. They are _my_ children, he is _my_ brother, and you legally married into _my_ family."

"I suppose I must do as you say," she acknowledged witheringly.

"You may replace the nurse whenever you like."

"Thank you, monsieur, for your generosity." I admit I deserved her sarcasm.

Dinner should have been excruciatingly tense. As it was, Hélène made me feel ridiculous by bringing up the whole thing herself.

"Mathieu tells me you were harvesting figs yesterday," she addressed Julien.

"Please forgive me. It was unintentional, I assure you. I and the nurse had the same idea, it seemed. There is only the one grove on the property."

"Not at all. I should be surprised it did not happen earlier."

"I have tried to be mindful of my position."

"Yes, your position. We must discuss that."

"Hélène," I tried to warn her. I did not at all like the hint of steel in her voice. She ignored me.

"What is it you think your position is?"

"Don't answer," I told him. "This is a discussion between us. You are not involved."

"But it is about me. I must be involved. Do you seek a definition or an agreement, madame?"

"What do you mean?"

He was completely calm, with a sympathetic tone to his carefully measured words. "Do you wish that I define my position in the world, or that I acknowledge how you have defined my position in this house? Or have I been using 'or' when I should be using 'and'?"

Whatever anger or frustration had been driving her disappeared at that moment and something in her collapsed. "Christ," she sobbed. I was on my feet almost instantly. "Don't touch me! Neither of you touch me!" She clung to the arm of her chair with both hands and would not look up. Only then did I realise that Julien was on his feet, too, alarmed and ready to comfort her in the distress he had caused. But our eyes met, and he looked as confused as I felt.

"I can't do this anymore," she said, addressing the floor. "I have spent my entire marriage lying to the world, and I knew those lies, I knew what to say, I knew what was supposed to be, what the priests and my mother had always said must be, what I wished was true and what I wished I might feel. And I am so tired of lying, and now I don't know what lies I must tell, and now the children have been brought into it." She finally looked me in the eye, her expression lost and vulnerable. "I never prepared for how to lie to them."

Now I looked away. I hadn't really thought of my son at all – what if Sébastien and I had not been caught when we had? What if we had been caught later, years from now? By him? I hadn't cared what my fool of a wife would think, but my son? I hadn't even thought of him at all. And now our daughter. Our daughter. What sort of life we were setting her up for? Neither of us prepared for how to lie to them.

"Our entire generation, ruined," Julien whispered.

"What was that?" I snapped.

"Perhaps reason would have done better for us, if this is what emotion brought us."

"This is hardly a time for philosophy."

"Let him speak," Hélène insisted quietly.

"The priests, our parents – the generation of reason. Marriage as a social duty, love will come in time, all husbands and wives learn to love each other. We learned these lessons at the knee of authority. But then we grew up on novels of feeling, of romance, of desire, we wanted to be swept away by Shakespeare instead of bored by Racine, we flitted from Rousseau to Hegel and back again, and all we've done is to make Hamlets of ourselves. Incapable of belief in the old order, incapable of rebelling against it, desperate to believe in love but unable to give it ourselves because it must hurt so much to give up one's heart if it will merely be trampled on by the love object or life or society, it doesn't even matter why. And so society goes round, dependent on lies and unfilled desires, because no one dares the pain of truth and possibility of rejection. It all made so much more sense when we didn't put all our faith in the inner life of the soul."

"We're all broken, and there's nothing we could have done to stop it?" she asked.

"We're all broken," Julien repeated.

"Are there happy marriages?"

"How would I know? Perhaps. Why not? Why must 'perfect' and 'happy' be synonyms?"

"I failed my lover, my wife, and my children because of Hegel," I found myself saying. "This is what we get for listening to Germans."

Hélène giggled hysterically. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But look at us. Germans. Listening to our own people wasn't going to get us anywhere, either. But Germans! No wonder we are wandering alone, having spent our lives listening to a people without a state."

"You make them sound like Jews."

"_We_ are Jews. Looking for acceptance, settling for tolerance, and always moving on because it is so hard to find either, keeping only what we can carry on our backs because we don't dare risk giving up more when it is time to go. But what can we do?" she asked Julien. "You understand the lie, the need for everyone to believe that you are not broken. My lie is that my husband loves me and I love him, when I am not certain any of it has ever been close to true. What is your lie?"

"I don't know yet. I don't know my truth yet. It's not the first time I've been lost."

"He's letting the photographer believe he was wounded in Algeria," I told her.

"That's a lie about me, but it is not my lie. It is convenient, but I do not know that anyone other than M. Fauret would believe it. The real lie is the one you wish was true. For so many years, my lie was that I had believed I was spared for a reason. I tried to believe it because I did not want to believe that only by accident was I incapable of death. And then to have a young man come to me one day and tell me I was free and the whole nightmare was a ridiculous bureaucratic mess rather than a specifically deemed punishment that that government would never have made clear – I suddenly believed in it then. In that moment, it was no longer a lie but a glorious, shining truth. Because how could something so absurd be merely an accident of nature rather than a necessary plan. But then, to leave was to be thrown on family as a charity case, too ill in body to be good for anything, too disturbed in mind from the overwhelming return of the past, invisible and unheard to anyone not predisposed to listen. I spend half my days thinking I must be a ghost."

"For days when I brought you home, I think I thought you were a ghost."

"Perhaps I am. Untimely resurrected, unable to do anything but retrace the lines of the past, uncertain why I am even compelled to walk those routes again."

"I've been walking the same routes. Little good it has done either of us, I fear, but we're both very much alive."

"But can I return to the world without a lie? Has anyone ever braved the world armed with just the truth? A confused and unknown truth at that? That would make us pure soul, would it not, the very definition of a ghost?"

"Let us not call it a 'lie', then. One needs a plausible story for the world. The truth is not plausible. I cannot even go to a lawyer to determine the situation and set up the appropriate mechanisms for transfer of property to you because the situation is not plausible. But here we all are."

Hélène spoke up. "If anyone had told me that you might be found as I discovered you in the yellow bedroom, I would not have thought it plausible. Such things between men were not to be comprehended."

"This is what comes of leaving women completely sheltered. Such things between men are not common, but they are not unknown. The ancients spoke of these things openly. With Charles, the trouble was that he puts himself above everyone else."

"I thought I was in love," I defended myself. "We're all victims of Romanticism. Chateaubriand could write of an incestuous passion and be hailed for breaking his own heart by not consummating it. But Shakespeare made us think suicide over a broken heart was better than to fail at being in love. Romeo and Juliet did far more damage than René ever could."

"But is that love? For Chateaubriand, of course it was right to not consummate the desires, but then how can one prove it love? Does love require death when the love object dies? Or is love something worse, something even more painful, that thing that caused Othello to strangle Desdemona because her betrayal broke everything inside him?"

"He smothered her with a pillow, and I'm not sure the Moor is the best exponent of whatever theory you are trying to prove."

"Or perhaps he is. Note how often he is called simply 'the Moor', as if we are afraid to speak his name, as if a name means we accept him as one of us, and thus his actions, his feelings, could be ours. Romeo loved Juliet so much that he would not live without her. But Othello loved Desdemona so much that he was willing to destroy her and himself in order to save them both. So much more pain, and thus so much more depth of feeling, must be required to kill the woman you love than to kill yourself."

"His truth was that he was never really as brilliant as everyone thought, so Iago's trick hit home. Iago thought he planted doubt, but the doubt was always there, not because he feared, but because he knew."

"Of course Desdemona would take up with a white man, not because women are fickle, not because she was fickle, but because one day she would wake up and realise that she could do better than a man addressed as the Moor rather than by his name."

"But she did love him," Hélène insisted. "The only honest person in the whole play."

"But when everyone lives a lie, how can anyone believe in truth?"

"Isn't that it, then? We hate the lies, but we don't want the truth. Or, well, we hate our own lies, but we never want to hear other people's truth. But then what do we do? What am I to tell the children?" She had finally come back around to the actual matter at hand.

"What have you told the servants?" Julien asked.

"Nothing. That you are visiting from Paris, that Lucie is your caretaker. What did you tell the servants in Paris?" she asked me.

"They had to know everything because of how I brought him home. Lucie knows the whole truth because she had to."

"And we have not been circumstantial in our references – servants have ears. Even without Lucie to explain, they would have learned it all by now. And they will certainly have told everyone they know. At least half of Marseille knows about me by now, possibly including your friends."

I hated that I knew he was right. "And Fauret thinks you were in Algeria."

"If the Dutilleuls know already, we cannot continue that story."

"We couldn't in any case – Dutilleul thinks you were dead."

"And if the whole truth outs, rather than simply servants' gossip, you are ruined."

"No," Hélène suddenly said firmly. "How often is the adulterer actually ruined? And I do not mean in your case," she addressed me in parentheses. "He is always still seen again. The adulteress? The only crime is when she actively runs away with her lover or if she bears a child that does not belong to her husband." She turned to Julien. "You cannot hide anymore. The only way to preserve anything is to brazen our way through."

"So that everyone will be ashamed for us, since we have no sense of shame ourselves."

"But will you stop being invited places?" he asked.

"If you are really such great friends with Florence Dutilleul, we should not have to worry about them nearly as much as everyone else. Dutilleul knows about Sébastien, after all."

"I should go. Everything will return to the abstract once I am gone."

"Don't be ridiculous," I told him. "Lucie says you are far better off here. And Hélène is right. This government freed you and gave you papers. This government says you exist on an equal footing with everyone else. There should not be any shame attached to your existence. We are simply still trying to adapt to this government."

"Is it my existence or my presence that is at issue?"

"Since you are supposed to be dead, it is your existence. You have been here, you exist, therefore even if you left today, your absence would resolve nothing. We needed to have this conversation in June."

"Or in March," he reminded me.

"My life in Marseille and my life in Paris are completely different. We had our agreement for Paris in the spring."

"Did we?"

"Well, things worked in the spring."

"I only ever saw one man of your acquaintance and I never went out otherwise."

"You were ill."

"You cannot hide, for your own sake as much as for ours," Hélène told him. "You were happy at Majeure. You were happy when you came home from your visit with M. Fauret."

"It is kind of you to care for my welfare, but you have lives I do not want to disturb."

"It's too late for that. I made that decision in March when I came for you. And father made the decision for truth years ago, when he was willing to admit that you had died by choice, not by accident. Mother did want to say it was the cholera, but he wouldn't allow it. We are what we are in spite of your actions, so I will simply have to hope that any further political actions you take will not be wild enough to reflect poorly on us."

"So we blame it all on the Bourgeois King and hope for the best?"

"What else can we do?" Hélène asked. "Hiding hasn't worked. We don't know how to construct a lie. We must tell our closest friends of your release, but for the rest, all of us must simply live as if nothing is wrong. That is how the adulterers do it; it is how we will have to do it."

"But what do we tell the children?" I finally had to ask. "They cannot understand that it is a bureaucratic mess."

"They don't have to," Julien said. "They will believe whatever you tell them because it is what you tell them. With them, one does not even have to use the word 'prison'." I took heart in how he said the word with a coldness and distaste that matched Hélène's.

"Mathieu asked me why you had not been here before. I simply told him that things were a little strange this summer."

"I told him that you had not been able to visit, that you had been very busy in Paris, and then I had to tell him to stop asking 'why', that it was rude to prise so much into other people's lives," Hélène told us. "And just that much felt so much like a lie, I couldn't bear to go on."

"Elision of the truth will be necessary. It is almost certainly best to allow others to believe I was wounded on the barricade. Including the children. It is simpler, even if it is not true."

"When we were young, there were more old soldiers. No one would have thought anything of you."

"They would have thought me a Bonapartist – isn't that worse?"

"Only you would think so." Despite the desperate tone of the conversation, I could not help being amused. Only Julien would still care so much, and with such seriousness, about his perceived political orientation.

"My family were Bonapartists," Hélène said, slightly hurt.

"So was our father, until the tide turned," I explained. "Then he was a Royalist."

"He was never truly one or the other," Julien said. "He loved the English too much, even before it was fashionable. We always had that much in common. It was why I had an Irish tutor once in the first place."

"You always had the best tutors. I never had anyone nearly as interesting as the ones you told me about."

"You did get the Orientalist. I was jealous of you for that."

"You were in medical school by then. And it isn't as if he taught me anything – he was only around for two months before his funding came through and he went off to Baghdad. Basra? Somewhere full of Arabs. You were sent to London."

"That was only because a change of scenery as well as a change of study was deemed appropriate after certain events. I loved London. One could buy newspapers on the street, uncensored. Debates in the House of Lords were reported just as those in the House of Commons. The Paris newspapers seemed so backward when I returned."

"Notice he talks only of newspapers," I instructed Hélène. "Art, literature, science, even the public parks cannot compare."

"Only because the great English poets were dead or in exile by then. No one could compare to Byron. But free men, with a free press – it was sublime. And now it has become daily life at home."

"Not anymore – the previous restrictions were re-instituted last month, thank God."

"This is your revolution," he replied bitterly.

"My revolution? Cavaignac only put the restrictions back on because of the mess your friends caused. I was rather enjoying the flurry of publication."

"They were not my friends. They are no longer Radet's friends. If you appreciated that fleeting attempt at a free press, you are not as much a conservative as you otherwise claim."

I preferred to move back to the previous subject rather than continue in that vein. "Would you move back to London?"

"Not at all. The food was abominable, and the wine was worse."

"Oh, dear," Hélène exclaimed. "Dinner." Our cold and abandoned plates suddenly seemed to accuse us for our descent into philosophy. "I am so sorry."

"There is no need to apologise, madame. Our souls were in far greater need of nourishment."

"My soul says that as you are Charles' brother, you are my brother. You need not address me as 'madame'."

I rang for a servant to come and clear everything away. I rather hoped the movement would break up whatever feelings she had returned to after her little fit. But, bidding him goodnight, she took my arm, not his, and mounted the stairs with me. Pausing outside her bedroom, rather than simply let me bid her goodnight, she kissed me. Not the brief goodnight kiss that I expected, but the sort of open lingering one expects from a lover, the sort of kiss I expected to see her one day give to Julien. And it was nice – kisses are generally nice – her lips soft and breath warm – but nothing more.

"Do you feel anything?" she asked softly.

"Embarrassed," I murmured.

She looked away. "For me?"

"For myself."

She embraced me, standing on tiptoe so that we stood cheek to cheek, the softness of her skin and the scent of her hair as evident as the boning of her corset. When a moment later, she had bid me goodnight and was gone, and I found myself standing outside her closed door, I came as close to loving her as I did on our wedding day.

She should have had Julien. He would understand her, appreciate her, far more than I ever could. We had all just spent an evening in truth without recriminations. He had shown himself to best advantage – and she had shown her understanding to be more worthy of respect than I had yet realised. I was the impossible husband, the man who, after that kiss from his beautiful wife, could arouse no feelings but shame but who could not refrain from fantasizing over a handsome workman in the street. My existence, not Julien's, was the farce.

But still she chose me.


	11. Chapter 11

In the light of day, however, circumspection seemed best. You know what I wrote to you at the time. Hélène's letter to your wife used the word "curious" as if it were a verbal tic. And neither of us mentioned prison.

Julien came to me not long after, insisting that he should go. "The grape harvest has been announced for next week. I had intended to spend a couple of weeks, perhaps a month, not the entire summer."

"But where will you go?"

"I don't know. But you have been kind enough to see that I have money. I don't have to return to Paris."

"We can make arrangements if you would like to emigrate."

"Hardly. For the first time in my life, I am able to live under a republic in my own country. And Paris will re-open eventually. If it does not, then the Republic will have been nothing more than false name and Cavaignac another Bonaparte."

"You cannot simply open a map and point to city and go there."

"Why not? It is an idea."

"Please stay."

"You wife will be grateful when I am gone."

"I'm not so sure about that," I muttered. "No, please. Stay through the olive harvest. Stay through Christmas – the New Year, even – while you are at it."

"And keep you in the country, against your will, so you may avoid leaving me alone with your wife."

"I think the status of the government will keep me in the country rather than anything else. I was supposed to go to Stockholm before the monarchy was overthrown, but that issue resolved itself far better than the provisional government has. It's better that I stay for the time being. Keep an eye on the political developments. Lucie would enjoy the olive harvest."

"You need not use Lucie's interest to goad me to action."

"Then stay. What would you do in, I don't know, Strasbourg? What does a man in exile do other than dream of home?"

"Which I did for sixteen years. I am far better at dreaming of home than being at home."

"Then it proves you need to spend more time at home."

"Home is gone."

"I want this to be your home."

"And your wife?"

"Did she not call you her brother?"

"What of her family? She must have her own people without you and me."

"She does not get on with her mother. There is an older sister who married a naval captain; he is stationed now in Brest, and her mother lives with them. Her father died many years ago. But you should ask her if you care so much. We never see anyone, and I think she is glad of it."

"At least in that sense, you married into the appropriate family. She is no better than we are."

"I never did tell you what happened to Vaillet, did I?"

"No. He cannot have spent sixteen years mooning over a ballerina."

"He married her."

"What?" Julien never gossip about acquaintances. Cousins on our mother's side, however, were always a different matter entirely.

"He had to flee to Milan with her, but they are married. No one realised how serious he was when he wrote home asking for permission, because he had tried it before, so of course they wrote back the refusal."

"So he had a third refusal, in writing, to take to the hôtel de ville. When did this happen?"

"One month after he turned twenty-six. He cited your example, which of course caused a flaming row between mother and Aunt Catherine."

"And Uncle Félix?"

"Has written a will leaving half his estate to some monastery."

"I do not particularly respect how the Napoleonic Code requires the division of real property because it punishes the smallholding peasant as well as the great landowner, but there is justice in a system where one cannot be disinherited over matters of the heart. Do you ever hear from him?"

"Uncle Félix or Jérôme?"

"Either, I suppose."

"The usual greetings at the New Year from Uncle Félix. Vaillet, not in a good ten years. They had two children already, last I knew, which had ended her career on the stage."

"I'm rather proud of him."

"So am I. At least you were not the only one of our generation to attempt to avoid misery."

"You could have thrown it all over, too. Father was a pushover, really. He let me enroll in medical school."

"But you had me coming along behind you."

"I don't know that it really concerned him."

"It did when I was the only one left."

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't entirely him," I admitted. "I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I were the end of the family line."

"At least we have not come to an end in the slums of Italy. I like your wife. And I am grateful for your attentions. Can you imagine how much worse everything would have been, for both of us, if you were the famous artist, living openly with your lover?"

"Sébastien was obsessed with your memory rather than afraid of you."

"But it would have been in all the newspapers, not just a small notice to fill space in the _Journal de la Liberté_, which has almost certainly ceased publication by now."

"Oh, Christ." I knew he was right. And in Marseille, had he been released from the Château d'If, it would also have been in both the local papers. But in Paris, there are too many men of some pretension to wealth and influence for me to be anything more than anonymous. "Perhaps you're right about the Fates having a plan."

There was no more talk of departure. Hélène came to my study after dinner that night, however, with a rather different issue. "The grape harvest has been announced."

"Yes. It is September. What of it?"

"The grape harvest. The Dutilleuls?"

"So we are still invited."

"Well, it is rather awkward. You wrote to him, did you not?"

"Yes. I know you wrote to her."

"Well, the invitation is phrased no differently to last year."

It was phrased differently. Last year, Mme Dutilleul wrote, "Please bring the children – Mathieu in particular will so enjoy it." This year, it was a slightly more formal "We invite your family – Mathieu had such a good time last year. It is a pity you haven't renters of your own with whom to celebrate."

"What do we do?"

"Well, you certainly must go, with the children."

"What of you?"

"I'll stay with Julien."

"But you adore the grape harvest. It is the only thing I have seen you sketch with any regularity for years."

"We cannot take him with us."

"No. But he is not precisely not invited."

"It would be rude to leave him behind."

"And it would be rude not to go. And possibly suspicious."

"The whole week will be spent in interrogation."

"It won't be quite so bad as that."

"No, they are more subtle, but the effect will be the same."

"But we may as well have it out sooner rather than later. Do you want to put it off to the holiday visits?"

"No. We'll have to take it in hand from the first opportunity. Particularly if Julien continues to be amenable to staying here. I may have convinced him to stay through the New Year."

"That may make the holidays difficult."

"Would you rather he return to Paris before the holidays?"

"No. He should not be alone at Christmas. He must be with us. I would think us terrible people, exiling him at Christmas. It's the New Year visits that may become awkward."

"No less so in Paris. I haven't yet told our aunt and uncle that he lives."

"Charles!"

"I had rather hoped to slip it into the New Year letter as a curious piece of information. If no one is in Paris, then the staff will simply receive the card from their servant and that will be the end of it. If someone is in Paris, then there will have to be a visit of some sort. It isn't as if you have told your mother."

"I have no intention of telling my mother. She would only descend on us to find fault with the entire arrangement because it is all she ever does, even after she pushed me into marrying you. But these are blood relatives."

"On our mother's side. The only one he ever liked was their son, Jérôme, who decamped for Italy years ago. There's no relationship there other than of blood."

"But they are family."

"I will ask him his advice for the grape harvest. We'll take the holidays when they come."

"No, I will ask him at dinner. It is what we began to discuss the other day. We had the philosophy, but now we come to the practice."

So we asked him. "Don't be absurd," he told us. "If you wish to go, then you must go."

"Of course Hélène and the children must go. But shouldn't I stay?"

"Whatever for? To keep me from stealing the household silver?"

"But you are a guest," Hélène told him. "It would be the height of bad manners to leave you alone with only the servants for company."

"Am I a guest? Charles has suggested that I might live here."

Hélène recovered well from her shock. "Of course. Forgive me. But that should not change things so much. It would still be rude of us to leave you."

"Charles must do as he prefers."

"Then it is settled. I will stay."

"But you do so love the grape harvest."

"Really?" Julien asked in curiosity.

"I do love the grape harvest. What better exponent is there of who we are as a people? To be French is to consume the land of your birth every day. One can take a fragment of a vine, plant it on the other side of the country, let it grow to fruit, but the vines, identical in every way, will never produce the same wine. The earth is in the wine in a way it is in nothing else that is grown. Even in the north, where they cannot sustain viticulture, the very fact that they drink cider rather than wine and calvados rather than brandy is a connection to the earth. Beer doesn't take the earth the way wine does. To taste the land every day – what can be more necessary to a nation? And to be present at the celebration of the earth's bounty – what better way to celebrate that we are Frenchmen?"

"Then why is there a conversation at all? I will be perfectly fine for the four days you would be gone. If you are so concerned that I would be alone, then I promise you I will call on M. Fauret. What could be more fair than that?"

Hélène and I exchanged looks. Finally, she was the one to mention, "You were invited as well. Possibly. We think. It's rather circumspect."

"Invited?"

"The exact phrase was 'we invite your family'," I admitted. "We don't entirely know what it means."

"But these are your greatest friends, didn't you say?"

"Yes, but you know as well as anyone that we have entered rather tricky waters."

"I am not certain I am well enough to meet your friends. Please make my apologies, should they ask after me."

"You are in perfectly fine health. You converse with strangers."

"But these are not strangers," he said. "This is precisely why it would be easier if I were out of town."

"I would worry far less with you here on your own for four days than I would if you left town for good," I insisted. "Here, you have your habits, you have at least one acquaintance, and the servants know you and are trustworthy. Elsewhere, you would only have Lucie."

"You see, we are agreed. You will go, and I will stay, and no one will be the worse for it. The invitation seems carefully written to neither include nor exclude me, and that is not the sort of invitation I ought to accept. There is no dilemma. If my absence is questioned, you will make my excuses on grounds of health."

As you recall, we went, and he stayed. I rode over, though I have never been so comfortable with horses as you, so that I might ride back if necessary. It was very good of you not to press too much, though I know I said very little. Even when you accompanied me on the second day as I went back to check on him, and I knew you were doing it largely to get a glimpse of him, you couched it in concern for me, and I am still grateful for that little lie.

I know it was stupid, since I had left him alone for two months in Paris after the argument, but I was not comfortable leaving him at home. Yes, it was ridiculous to ride back solely to see that he was all right, and I know I looked ridiculous when the staff told me he had gone to the village again. I had not entirely expected it, though I should have done, and I was both glad he was out of the house and embarrassed that I had not predicted it.

In my defence, I could hardly have predicted that "he has gone to the village" meant "he is helping with their grape harvest". I had never seen him engage in work of any sort until we stood there, watching him, shirtsleeved and hatless in the sun, cutting grapes. Of course he stood out from the villagers, with his white shirt and flowing grey hair. I did not point her out to you, but Lucie was of course there, a handkerchief tied around her head in lieu of a bonnet, carrying a basket on her head with a poise and dexterity that surprised me. She was, like most servants in Paris, not a native of the city, but I had never thought through the implications. She moved with the villagers because she was one, even though she was the French-speaking outsider, the well-dressed "daughter" of the gentleman who had so kindly given his aid, inexpert though it was, rather than watch with noblesse as we always did. But then, these were men on their own ground; your renters harvest your land. One could say that when they divide the harvest into the agreed portions, they are not paying you for the land but paying themselves for the labour. We picnic as lords, the peasants labouring for our entertainment. Julien found himself free men and gave them his labour in return for their kindness over the summer.

Not that such thoughts interrupted my enjoyment of the next two days. He was safe, everything was pleasant, the weather was beautiful. A perfect beginning to the Mediterranean autumn. I hope our lack of answers did not discomfit you too much. I distinctly recall one conversation between Hélène and your wife.

"But what is he like?"

"He is Charles' brother. Think of all Charles' good points, and there you go. Well, not precisely. Charles is an artist. His brother is a scientist. But they truly have much in common."

"That doesn't tell me much."

"Someday you may meet him and decide for yourself what he is like." And then she changed the subject.

It was strange to be doing something so normal, something we had done so often for years, but with him in the background. Before his return, I had never considered the class implications of watching peasants cut grapes. Now, he did not even have to bring it up himself. I could blame the government, but it was not the government's doing. The government could not decide if it was in retreat from or in support of the revolution that had birthed it. I had no love for the revolution, but the very fact of my brother's existence told so much that had been wrong in the previous regime. Everything looked the same yet felt entirely different. And not wrong, exactly – I did enjoy the time spent, and I did make some excellent sketches – but I was suddenly aware of things, such as the class implications of our outing, that I had not seen before.

But I was glad to return home because it was so obvious that my sense of everyday life had changed. He was out when we returned, but he appeared in time for dinner. At some point between his assistance in the harvest and our return, he had gone into town – he had finally gotten a haircut and looked civilised for the first time in months. Hélène greeted him with a kiss on the right cheek.

"Did you have a pleasant stay?"

"We did."

"You would have hated it," I told him. "We play the lords and make the peasants dance for our amusement."

"Charles!" Hélène chided me.

"An exaggeration, but not wholly untrue. What did you do while we were gone?"

"The same things I do when you are here. You had your grape harvest; Lucie and I had ours."

"The fishermen have vines?" I did not want him or Hélène to know I had spied on him.

"Everyone with some land has vines. I spent this afternoon in the company of M. Fauret, which may please you."

"It does. It must prove far more interesting to you to converse properly than to observe Provençal labourers."

"Some of them do speak some French. I don't go there for the conversation."

He chatted with Hélène about an English photographic process with which he had assisted M. Fauret that afternoon, his English even now being in a better state than Fauret's. It was a pleasant evening. Everyone seemed to fit into place.

That was rather shattered before the week was out, thanks to the arrival of a parcel from a bookshop in town. It came to me because no one had thought to put Julien's Christian name on it. While I was surprised to be receiving anything from a bookshop, I was horrified when I discovered it was a pamphlet in German. The pamphlet in German. _Manifest der Kommunistischen Partei_.

I found him sitting on the terrace, idly flipping through a book of poetry. Dropping the pamphlet into his lap, I announced, "This came for you."

He examined the yellow cover carefully. "Ah, very good. Should you like to read it when I have finished?"

"What do you take me for?" I snapped.

"A thinking man who wishes to know his enemy?"

I left him to it and did not tell Hélène precisely what he was suddenly reading. It was not a terribly thick pamphlet, but he looked rather done up for the next couple of days. "Your eyes are no better?" I asked in concern when I found him lying on the sofa in my study that evening.

"I had forgotten how difficult Gothic type can be. The scientific literature is usually in a Roman face." He obviously had a headache, but he suffered through dinner as a kindness to us.

It took him two days and a dictionary to read a thirty page pamphlet. I got through the ridiculous tripe in about two hours, in his presence, solely because Gothic type is difficult and I had to keep stopping to ask "did the writer actually say this?" only to have the rubbish confirmed. To defend him, I must admit that he simply could not have known some of the words or ideas, much less their German forms, because they did not exist twenty years prior.

"In my reading, I have tried to be fair," he admitted, "but it was perhaps a mistake to permit a man with so many grudges to write the manifesto for a party."

"What sort of circles must this man travel in to think that the bourgeois is obsessed with seducing other men's wives?"

"Well, we know you are not. He accuses his enemies on the left of wanting a bourgeoisie without a proletariat, but these methods would simply create a proletariat without a bourgeoisie. There are significant issues with the current distribution of property, not least in this country under the civil code, but to put all property in the hands of the state is to put every person in the thrall of the state. If the proletariat exists because the bourgeois does not permit him property or income above subsistence level, then to centralise it all in the state is to make everyone a part of the proletariat. Yes, everyone can participate in the government, but that simply means that one has even less control over one's life than one does now. I cannot help agreeing with Locke's assertion that man cannot delegate authority over himself that he does not have. In the current system, which cannot hold, a man at least has the opportunity to elect which crops to plant, what manner of his labour to sell, what way in which to interact with society. Under this system, these choices would be given over to a central authority. A central authority that would come very close to having the power of determination over life and death."

"What on earth can he actually mean by 'capital is a collective product'?"

"No, that's the part that actually makes sense according to his own definitions. To this author, capital is solely that property derived from the exploitation of wage labour. Therefore, any profit that comes from the labour of your own hands is not capital. Capital requires that one man produce something for another man to buy and a third to accept the profit. It is inherently collectively produced."

"But then he goes on to say 'when capital is converted into common property, into the property of all members of society, personal property is not thereby transformed into social property. It is only the social character of the property that is changed. It loses its class character.' How is that supposed to work?"

"He's trying to have it both ways. That capital is an abstract collective work that can, without any changes, be reassigned to the collective and is the personal property of the bourgeois. I think this may be somewhat derived from Rousseau, in that the belief in property as being the result of collective agreement and alienation of possessions to the collective will for protection is not in conflict with these statements, but I never wholly liked Rousseau for his insistence on the alienation of possessions to the collective as a definition of property rights. Perhaps I was given Locke too early, because I cannot help preferring his definitions.

"In any case, this man's belief in the power of the state is ludicrous, because it is the individual controllers who have created the great growth of capital and thus financed everything he does not mention. Look at us – neither the individual nor the state nor both in conjunction can even finance the completion of railroads started three years ago! Putting the necessary capital in the hands of the state will not solve that problem because a government is inherently more conservative than the businessman. A government, having concern for the collective, cannot take the risks that a businessman will take out of concern for profit. The profit motive – the desire to make more of something – is the only power that has ever pushed humanity forward. Sadly, we are not the selfless creatures we ought to be, and there will be no utopias unless we can rid ourselves of our selfish hearts. If not even Jesus Christ can do that for his followers, how can this unknown German do it for his? Moreover, if everyone must labour for their portion, and no one is allotted more than their need, then who is going to finance art, literature, architecture, music – everything that is not necessary for survival but is necessary for life? And yes, I am arguing for bourgeois culture, but do the people not have their own music and art and literature? Any music, art, or literature is not necessary for bare survival, but it is absolutely necessary for life. When silence is not enforced, there is song; but when silence is enforced, there are not mass deaths. Who will support culture? The government? You know as well as I do how difficult it is to get something interesting accepted to the Salon. No collective should ever be considered the sole arbiter of taste. Taste is intensely personal and variety is the only way we will ever have advancement in the arts."

"So you think the whole thing ridiculous?"

"Yes, and no. I think he makes an interesting point in the first section, about history as class struggle. I have no wish to refute that. I think it a bit more complicated, but I also think it is a perfectly reasonable basic outline. It is the later sections that do not appeal to me. Or to anyone, really. If this is the best the Communist Party can do, it will be dead inside six months. It certainly has no chance at becoming the worldwide force for revolution it seeks. But this man does not care what I think – I think I have been labeled a 'bourgeois socialist' as if I were the scum on the bottom of his shoe. Because while I see the misery, I also see the benefit, that only with the increase of capital can railways be constructed, making the physical distances less important and making it easier and cheaper for goods and people to move, to take away the isolation of the country districts and make education more possible, that even as labour has been assigned a wage and often a miserable one, so many people have so much more. There are flaws in the system, yes, but the system may not be wholly bad. Is the ill-paid factory worker really worse off than the serf? Both are cold, dirty, and starving, but the wage labourer has the choice to leave and try other employment, which the serf never had. Farms are more productive than they were two centuries ago. These railways will make it easier to transport farm goods into the cities, which may lower food prices and assist the workers and the farmers if corresponding gains in productivity are made. It has been done in England; it was in process when I was there twenty years ago. Even a streetwalker in medieval Paris would have laughed had you suggested she might own a scrap of mirror, while the streetwalker today almost certainly has found one. The fact that streetwalkers exist is of enormous importance, it is a terrible reflection of what we have failed to do as a society, and yet is the destruction of private property any sort of solution?"

"So you are not a Communist."

"Not if this is their manifesto. Though I do agree with what he says about women, and of course the need for free, compulsory, public education and the abolition of child labour. But surely we can do without the creation of vast bureaucracies enslaving us all. Bureaucracies engender incompetence; they make it possible to hide mistakes. If it were not for bureaucracy and the law, someone would have actively murdered me long ago, but because one could simply make an entry in a book, death would have taken far more effort than oblivion did. Entrust all our lives, the daily effort of living, to a bureaucracy? No, thank you."

"Isn't that just what your democracy would be?"

"No. I never sought straight democracy as the Athenians professed to practice, and theirs was not even true democracy because so much of the affected population was actually slaves, not citizens. The population is simply too large. But representation, the form of a republic, with universal suffrage, where any man can stand for office and every man can select his representative, that is the only possible model for free men. And we must determine a way for the working man to serve, though I cannot like the idea of paying a wage for a service that ought to be a duty to the fatherland. But there must be something to permit a labouring man to exchange service to a single master for service to the state. As it is, you have a list of bourgeois and that is it. Drawing a government from only one class cannot be sustainable, though it may be necessary for a time with the state of education as it is."

"Démo-soc."

"Yes. Come, that is not nearly so red as you feared, is it? Louis Blanc was not even in favour of the national workshops in the manner they were instituted."

"Then why was he expelled?"

"Because this is your revolution. How can it be otherwise when only the bourgeois can stand for a seat in the National Assembly and the people have not the education to understand their own needs? Of course the country districts elected conservatives and thus the whole thing is collapsing under the necessity of the basic structural principles. I don't have a solution to that fundamental problem other than education. But rioting so quickly against a government elected through universal suffrage strikes me as wrong, even as that government is acting perhaps against the interests of the working people. If we do not respect the will of our fellow citizens, then we, too, are tyrants. The liberty of the citizen ends where the liberty of his neighbour begins. We must respect the opinion of our neighbours and seek to change it through engagement, not violence. Violence is never the result of respect. But Louis Blanc was a scapegoat. He was expelled because he was correct. Whoever wrote this pamphlet would be welcome to stay in Paris because he is a fool. I wasted far more money than I'd like to contemplate in acquiring this piece of rubbish. What is the newest three volume novel? I feel I ought to purchase something expensive but in stock in order to make it up to the bookshop for all their trouble."

I was not entirely soothed. The pamphlet was undoubtedly the work of a committee, cobbled together from the grudges the members had against their own failures. But if the man who had articulated that vision of history was anything close to correct, the rallying cry at the end would have its adherents. Assuming someone found a copy of this pamphlet again in twenty or thirty years, when there might actually be enough workers in the world to count. The pamphlet may have been in German, but its London publication came through in every sentence. The English are too advanced to have lessons for the rest of us in anything other than history. But that refrain, "Working men of the world unite!", worried me more than I wished.

Nevertheless, Julien seemed to have thought rather little of the whole thing. He accompanied me into town the following week and placed an order with the bookshop for the new volume of Balzac that was anticipated to arrive any day from Paris. "It is good that M. Balzac still writes."

"Seventeen volumes and counting. You had time for novels before?"

"One must make time for some form of leisure. I had rather more time near the end than I did in the beginning."

"Medical school."

"One must have a great deal of dedication to complete medical studies."

"I'm surprised you didn't."

"It was not the dedication that was lacking." He continued with a defensiveness that surprised me, "I was the youngest intern at Necker in a generation. Necker was the most prestigious of the hospitals, and I stood and passed the exam for the _internat_ after my first year."

"And?"

"And the body is sometimes weak," he replied bitterly, looking at his hands as if they had failed him.

I did not press further. No one had ever discussed why Julien had left the medical school. All I was ever permitted to know was that one day, he was studying to be a doctor, and the next, he was bound for London to stay with a friend of my father and learn the English methods of finance. He stayed there for seven months and we never had a single letter from him in all that time. And then the whole mess with Henri Enjolras and his girl took over.

The last day of September came more quickly than expected, a day of full sun and summer heat but with the oddly yellow light of autumn. He invited me for a final swim of the season, and I agreed.

The wind came up cooler than one would think in the sun, but the sea was still warm. We did not speak much, but sitting on the beach, letting the wind dry the salt into our skin, I found myself finally exploring the marks they had left on him. The brand was not really a complete triangle – the three sides never met, so the flesh inside the outline was normal rather than scarred. He had put on weight, and the dimples of the footprint in his back did not seem so deep. Each of these wounds had a different texture as I ran my fingers over them, a different way of marking his varied sufferings.

"Charles, I am not one of your men," he accused me darkly.

"Christ, you would think that of me?" I must have looked as disgusted as I felt at the very idea. I was interested in scar tissue, not a seduction, and I told him so.

"And since everyone else has poked and prodded me, you wish to have your turn."

"No," I argued, perhaps a bit defensively.

He exhaled sharply, almost like a laugh. "You've been patient enough, I suppose. Beyond patient, really." He took my hand and put it to his scarred cheek. Our eyes never met as I explored the twisting, rubbery tissue that had once been smooth skin. He pushed my hand away to rub at it himself soon enough. "Sorry. You would think by now I would know the salt causes it to itch."

I laid my head on his shoulder, and from old habit, he was soon rubbing my back. It was both entirely right and entirely wrong all at once, and he seemed to know it.

The moment was over almost as soon as it had begun. He kissed my hair and murmured, "You're not still seven."

"I wish I was." That was the summer he had taught me to swim, when we had sat on the beach and I could curl next to him and Enjolras didn't intrude.

"No, you don't. Don't you remember how awful it was to be a child? Dependent on everyone for everything but kept in the dark and reliant on servants' gossip for any news of import. Everything done for you, to you, regardless of your own opinion or your own understanding. The isolation, the loneliness, everyone certain that they know best when they patently do not."

He might have been talking of his own imprisonment, but the tone was too light, lacking the bitterness I had come to expect. The punishment of prison is not just the revocation of free movement but the infantilisation of the man it engenders. I had watched men learn to walk again and not fully understood what I was seeing.

"But it was easier," I protested feebly, mostly to keep him talking.

"Only when you choose to forget. You didn't have any friends, either. Tagging along after us could not have been so amusing."

It wasn't. It was rather tedious. I did not understand precisely what they were doing, and sometimes they would start conversing in Latin or English just to keep me in the dark. "But don't you wish you could go back?"

"Not to childhood. Wasn't it better once we began to understand one another? The biggest disservice mother ever did was to let so many years go by without childbearing. She was more concerned with the maintenance of the estate than with our spiritual well-being. Other people have families; we were only children who happened to share parents. The older you got, the better I liked you, even if we did fight. I wish I could change many things about the past, but I don't want to live it again. Let us make the future instead."

Hélène looked at us rather curiously when we came up to the house, arms around each other, but she said nothing.

The settlement of September lasted only another week. On 6 October, Cavaignac announced that he was lifting the state of siege. Paris was open again.

As much as I wanted to hide the newspaper when that was published, I knew I would only cause a row when he discovered the news for himself. I did delay my departure for town and drank coffee with him while he breakfasted in order that I might be present for his reaction.

"You have read the paper?" he asked me after it was impossible to ignore the headline.

"Of course."

He rang for a servant. "Bring Lucie to me immediately, if you please." Turning back to me, he announced, "I will be leaving tomorrow."

"Don't be absurd."

"There is nothing absurd about it. Lucie will pack, I will say goodbye to your wife, and we will board a train for Paris in the morning."

"Have some consideration for the staff in Paris. At least write to the housekeeper to announce your return. Write today, say you will arrive in a week."

"Ah, Lucie. The siege has been lifted. We are going home." It hurt that he was now calling Paris "home" when he had been so adamant before that only Marseille could have that distinction.

She did not look excited to be leaving, but she dipped a curtsy and asked, "Shall I begin packing, monsieur?"

He glanced in my direction, but then ordered, "Not yet. We will leave on Friday."

I thanked him when she had gone.

"You are perhaps right. It would be inconsiderate to simply turn up without warning, expecting to be fed and bathed when no preparations for food or water had been made."

"You do not have to go at all. Particularly so soon. You have a life here. You have an order coming from the bookshop!"

He shrugged. "Hélène can have it if it comes after I am gone. A parting gift, if you will."

It was the first time he had ever referred to my wife by name. I did not like it. I especially did not like how she did not even try to hide her shock when I announced that he was leaving. She is not attractive when she sits gaping like a fish.

"So soon!"

"I thought you were unhappy I had offered that he might live with us. That situation is now resolved."

"I was surprised, that was all. He really intends to go? Is that wise?"

"He is a grown man and can make his own decisions."

"It would have been rather easier if he had gone earlier. Or later."

At dinner that night, she asked him, "You will come for the holidays, will you not?"

"We will see."

"Please consider it. I had thought we might make an attempt at taking Mathieu to mass this year, and he would so enjoy it if you were to accompany us."

He smiled, but he would only reply, "We will see."

It was an awkward week as we all began to withdraw from each other in anticipation of his departure. But Friday morning, we all breakfasted together – a silent meal. The children were brought down to share in the goodbyes.

"Are you coming back?" Mathieu asked him.

"There will be a present at Christmas," Julien promised – the closest thing to an acknowledgement that he would return for the holidays that he was willing to make.

Hélène insisted on accompanying us to the station, to bid her goodbyes there. We embraced; she kissed him goodbye; Lucie helped him into the carriage. Before any of it could fully register, he was gone.

We were silent in the carriage. Hélène watched out the window the entire time rather than look at me. Dinner that night, even after a week of quiet and awkward dinners, seemed peculiarly silent. Life had returned to normal.


	12. Chapter 12

Normal was rather hard to bear. The volume of Balzac arrived; I gave it to Hélène. We both avoided bringing up Julien at all, less I think because we had nothing to say than because I was certain she was pining for him. In less than a week, she mentioned that she was considering taking the children and spending some time with the Dutilleuls. "I doubt that you'll miss me."

"There's no need to run away. I'm considering going to Paris."

"He does not need you looking over his shoulder every moment."

"No, but I do want to see that he is all right."

"You can admit that you are bored. I am, too. I had not expected to grow accustomed to his presence, much less enjoy it."

"How much time did you spend with him?"

"Why do you sound angry? More time than I could have expected. It was pleasant to converse with someone who was actually interested in what I had to say and was old enough to follow a thread of conversation. One of us should leave," she sighed. "It would be less depressing to have fewer adults in the house if we are still not going to treat each other as adults."

I understood what she meant, even as I was certain she was pining for Julien's company. She spent most of October with your wife. It just seemed easier to let her go. I knew Paris was a bad idea, and I refrained from bothering him. I wanted to go abroad, really, to clear my head, and even took ship for Naples, but I spent less than a week, utterly bored and unimpressed with the boys available. I wasn't in the mood for boys, it seemed. Hiking up Vesuvius was not advised in the bleak late autumn weather, and I returned home still dissatisfied.

Hélène had returned by then. "I'm going to Paris next week," I told her. "I don't know how long I'll stay. Certainly long enough to take care of some business, but I'll be back before the election. We should settle the inheritance issue once and for all. It is infantilising to continue to dole out an allowance to him when he should have an income settled on him. We would do as much for your mother should something happen to your sister's husband. And it would solidify our ownership of the estate here."

She nodded. "It is for the best."

To Paris I went. The last time I had been there, I had put Julien's needs before my usual endeavours. My life in Paris is very different to my life in Marseille, or at least I try to keep it so, despite your occasional presence in both spheres, and, to be perfectly frank, I was more interested in the denizens of the Tuileries gardens than I was in just about anything else, particularly after Naples had left me limp. Sébastien had fled to Lille, leaving the field completely clear of embarrassing encounters. I would not be able to bring anyone home, but I was badly in need of certain attentions.

I went directly to the Tuileries and selected the first young man to return my gaze. In the semiprivacy of the coach, he sucked me dry while the coachman made his way through heavy traffic. It was not at all what I wanted, but I could hardly bring a prostitute to a house shared with Julien, so it was the only relief at which I could easily grasp, and he was far better than the schoolboys they tried to push at me in Italy. I put the man out on a street corner and only then directed the driver to the proper address.

The maid who opened to me was a complete stranger. Julien had been in town for a month and had replaced the staff. "Is M. Combeferre at home?" I decided to ask, since she certainly was unable to recognise the master of the house.

"He is not in. May I take your card?"

Was he out or did he ask not to be disturbed? "What of Lucie?"

She looked at me strangely, suspiciously. "Mlle Godbout?"

Was that Lucie's surname? I couldn't remember. It must have been. "Yes."

"May I ask who is calling?"

"No."

"Wait here, monsieur." Julien was home if Lucie was home, but the house was being very poorly run if a visitor were left standing in the hall. It was only when I set down my bag that I realised that the situation must look very strange, an unexpected house guest who would not give his name. I had been unfair to the girl, and Julien would not be at all pleased.

When Lucie finally entered, it was a shock. She was wearing a new dress I had not yet seen, that suited her very well and yet made her appear far more the mistress of the house than a paid companion. There was nothing showy and at the same time nothing dull about it. What was Julien doing with the girl? But she curtsied to me, begged my forgiveness, and took my bag herself. "M. Combeferre! Please forgive me. We did not expect you. Did you have a pleasant journey?" She was speaking rapidly in nervousness. "I will take this up at once. Oh, if we had known, we would have aired your room properly. M. Julien is a bit under the weather today, I'm so sorry. What can I bring you?" We were in my bedroom by this time, and she had rung the bell vigorously to call in another maid.

"Hot water to wash. And what on earth is going on?"

"We lost some of the staff," she admitted.

"Some of the staff?"

"The cook left. Just up and left. And Thérèse didn't want to stay, so M. Julien gave her a reference. The new girls are Sylvie, she's the blonde, and Monique, and the new cook is Mlle Frémillard." It was all very rapid and defensive, and I was certain I was never going to get the whole story. The blonde girl – not the girl who had opened the door to me – responded to the bell and Lucie sent her away to bring me water.

"And what do you mean, Julien is not well?"

"Winter is coming very quickly. He has a bit of a cold, that's all."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, monsieur! He will probably be down for dinner. Dinner is at six-thirty; I'll tell Mlle Frémillard that there will be an additional person."

It was not at all the household I had expected. Lucie had set up as mistress, the staff was completely new, and I suspected Julien was more ill than Lucie had let on. The new girl brought my water and dropped a curtsy before she left – at least one of them was decently trained.

But Julien did come down for dinner and appeared to have been warned of my presence. He did look rather oddly at the table, sneezed, and sat down anyway. "I must have missed your letter."

I flushed. I had not actually thought to write, which was very rude of me. I had come to Paris with the intention of signing over the house entirely to him, but I had treated no one with the courtesy required of a guest. "I'm sorry. I'm only in town in order to take care of some legal business."

"Stay as long as you like. It is your house."

"It bears little resemblance to the house I left. What happened?"

"It seems an empty house in an occupied city was not the preferred position for your cook or your housemaid. The cook was gone by the time we returned, and no, nothing was stolen so far as I could tell, and Thérèse begged for a reference, so I gave her one. Lucie went in person to the agency that had placed her here and found the two girls. They've been fine. We're on the second cook, however."

It was an uninspiring declaration, but the dinner proved far beyond my expectations. "How much are you paying her?"

"Lucie knows. More than you were paying the one who abandoned you." I did not like the judgment in his voice, the implication that I had been abandoned because of paltry wages, but he had always trusted servants far more than I did. The dinner was quite good, yet I had attributed it to my presence as a guest. One must always treat a guest with additional courtesy.

"Where on earth did you find her?"

"Lucie takes care of the staff. The woman's father was a pastry chef, I believe."

I could believe it – it was women's cooking, to be sure, but of a surprisingly delicacy. A pastry chef would make sense. "How have you been?"

He sneezed again. "Fine, fine. The rain has not been ideal." We essentially made small talk with long silences through dinner. When we retreated to the salon, Lucie was already there, mending one of his shirts. She got up to go, but sat down at a gesture from Julien. It was strange to watch them. She was a different person in his presence, not at all out of place in that room, apparently capable of running the house, or at least of finding somewhat competent staff, so that it did make one wonder what servants might be like if they were not servants. One usually noted ex-servants in the bankruptcy announcements, but then, the successful and law-abiding are never in the newspapers. Julien must have come to that realisation far earlier in his life. She set aside her sewing after a while and read aloud a little when it proved we were not going to talk. Her reading had greatly improved – it seemed possible that he had had her at it all day through the summer, when he was not with Hélène. It felt very much as if I were watching an unknown family through the the window. You know how you see two people in the park, or look out your window and see into the flat across the street? Something in how the people interact tells you if they are related, if they are in love, if they merely tolerate each other's presence. I was not watching a middle-aged man and his mistress. Nor was I watching a man and his grown daughter. The relationship was not quite clear, but it was comfortable. And I was an observer, throwing the whole pairing out of joint.

As for my own business, I had, on the train, considered the idea of seeking out Marius Pontmercy instead of using one of the family lawyers. He already knew the difficult aspect of the situation, and he did not know the extent of the family holdings, both of which were useful qualities. But I did not at all know what sort of law he practised or if he would be amenable to assisting either of us. Julien had been rather cruel to him. But it seemed worth looking into, if only to rule it out as a possibility. It would be much easier not to have to explain just why I sought to make certain transfers.

I had one of the clerks in my Paris office look him up. An address in the rue des Filles du Calvaire – Pontmercy practised out of his home. And he was not officially listed as a baron in the rolls, which was a blessing. I did not tell Julien what I intended. It seemed best I take this risk alone.

I went to the rue des Filles du Calvaire. It was one of those sleepy streets that had been important two generations ago but had faded during the Empire and never recovered. An inherited house, almost certainly, perhaps not worth enough on the market to finance a move to more impressive quarters. Decently staffed, however, by the look of the maid who answered my ring and took my card. The drawing room into which I was ushered to wait was well decorated in reasonably modern fashion, however, and scrupulously clean.

To my surprise, it was Mme Pontmercy who greeted me. "M. Combeferre? Please make yourself comfortable. My husband is expected back any moment. May I offer you something to drink?" She was a small woman, slender despite the number of children she had borne, fair, with very fine eyes. She had aged better than her husband, I was certain.

"No, thank you. I can come back another time, if it would be more convenient."

"Oh, no, he has just gone to deliver some papers. He was very clear that if you ever came, you should not be sent away as a stranger."

"I think that order was intended should my brother ever come."

"You have not been sent to survey the battlefield?"

I admit, I was charmed by the honesty. "I hope it will not be a battlefield. I seek your husband's advice on a legal matter."

She seemed about to speak when we heard the bell. "That should be him. It was a pleasure to meet you, M. Combeferre."

She scurried out to meet – or warn – her husband, who soon appeared at the door of the drawing room, his face creased with confusion. "I have been told you have come to discuss business."

"If I might. Wills, property, contracts – that sort of business."

"Surely you have a family lawyer."

"It is in reference to my brother's share of the inheritance."

"I see." He closed the door behind him and motioned for me to take a seat near the fire. "Having been declared dead, he did not receive his share of your father's estate, and now you seek to legally consolidate your position."

"Precisely."

"Does he benefit?"

"Of course. I wish to make some transfers of property so that he will own the Paris house outright and have a sum set aside in shares of the company and in bank shares and government bonds that would permit a substantial yearly income."

"And what do you gain?"

"The Marseille property outright, control over the company itself, and all proceeds from the company that are not directed to Julien. I have a wife and two children," I explained. "Julien will never marry. If he predeceases me, as is likely, there would be no issue – anything would come directly back to me. But if by some unfortunate chance I predecease him, either he will be left dependent on my children or my children will not have the control over the estate that is due them. It is less about the money and more about the legal issues," I tried to justify. "I come to you because you can understand the situation."

"Yes. I see." He stared into the fire, warming his hands. "Does his sanity permit him to sign the transfers you seek?"

"Are you asking if my brother is mad?" I asked, appalled at the suggestion.

Pontmercy rounded on me. "It isn't easy to have survived. Nearly seventeen years, and the nightmares don't stop just because I have slept in a feather bed for all of them. In June, I was uncertain if I were mad or if the guns really were going off again. Cosette has humoured me for so long that even her fears seemed a part of my delusion rather than a natural result of events outside," he admitted bitterly. "To survive is to remember, constantly, that you were marked out, alone of your comrades, and also to know that you are forever unfit for whatever reason you were reserved. To see ghosts around every corner. To see your children grow and yet be certain at least one of them will be ripped from you because you still owe a sacrifice of blood to the insatiable monster that is Paris in anger. And Combeferre was right – I've had a far easier life than he has had! What must have become of him these years gone? I may still end my days in the madhouse. What of him?"

"He is as sane as I am," I insisted. But then I admitted, because here was the one person who could understand, "But sometimes he goes off, as if he has left his body behind and his soul is drifting somewhere we cannot follow. Lucie – the girl who looks after him – calls it a fit of memory. He'll seem lost in thought, but he'll get stuck like that for hours. I think he must have learned how to completely lose himself and now he gets stuck staring at the walls of a cell that no longer exist. But he's mentally competent. I will swear to that."

"Nightmares?"

"I don't know. I've never asked. I don't think he'd tell anyone."

Pontmercy nodded. "Especially you, and especially me. What is his current legal status?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is he alive or dead?"

"The young man who dealt with the political prisoners made arrangements for all of them to have proper identity documents. He exists, he can travel, he can work, and he can vote. His imprisonment has been translated into Paris residency since there are no court records pertaining to his case, at least as I understand it."

"Have your lawyer get in touch with me. I'll draw everything up, but I will need to have a better picture of the properties being transferred, particularly any bank shares that would fall under inter vivos transfers. The last thing you would want is your children's trustee taking him to court because you failed to properly calculate the percentage of your estate that you were transferring to him."

I agreed to his demands without pointing out that I sought to have as much as possible of Julien's legal portion transferred to me rather than transfers in the other direction. I did not want my lawyers involved at all, but Pontmercy would at least provide a barrier between them and Julien. And when he was not being confronted by my brother in all his mocking fury, Pontmercy did not really seem such a bad chap. His outburst, while inappropriate when addressed to a stranger, was touching, and I did rather pity him. If, as Julien had said, he had been weak and went along as a follower rather than a believer, then he had suffered in ways he did not wholly deserve. Julien had at least deserved his sufferings, even in a way embraced them as his just payment in blood. Pontmercy was taxed while Julien was a willing donor.

I wrote the necessary letter to my lawyers and let Pontmercy do what he felt appropriate. It was whilst writing that letter that afternoon that I happened to overhear another visitor at the door. What I at first overheard was a girlish giggle, and ,assuming the worst of the new maids, I went to investigate. Instead, I heard Lucie's voice, though in a strange tone.

"I had forgot you were coming. It is Thursday, isn't it?"

"It is." The male voice was slightly familiar to me, and his tone was very familiar with her. "Is he in?"

"M. Julien's been taken ill. If I'd remembered it was Thursday, I would have sent a note. Are you very busy with your new job?"

"More or less. Things have settled down since the summer, but now the battles are inside the offices. I think this week has been the calm before the storm. Preparations for the presidential election, of course."

"I'd ask you to stay a bit, but M. Combeferre is in town."

"Ah, I see. I had better go."

At least she was not entertaining her beau in my presence, but it was unsettling he had used the front door and sought Julien. Julien was decidedly giving her ideas above her station. I hurried down the stairs and saw the gentleman in question just as Lucie began to open the door for him.

"M. Combeferre, a good evening to you." He raised his hat to me. Little Radet – was he coming for Julien, now, or for Lucie? The one was above his station, the other below. I did not like it in either case, but he had restored Julien to the family, and I was grateful for that. I addressed him kindly enough, I hope, because it would not do to cause a scene in front of such an acquaintance. But when he was gone, I certainly asked her, "Do the other girls receive their beaux at the front door?"

"Don't be absurd," she answered coldly, suddenly sounding like Hélène and without the slightest nervousness. "None of us have beaux. He visits M. Julien."

"You were prepared to have him stay whether or not Julien would see him."

"I was prepared to be polite and not send a guest out into the cold without a chance to warm himself. However, you were in the only room other than the kitchen where there is a fire, and I chose not to disturb you. If you would prefer your house run on other lines, please tell me."

"Because you run this house now?"

"Yes, I do," she said evenly. "M. Julien has asked me to."

I was not entirely certain I wanted to know what Julien had done to her. She had been obedient, and silent, and nervous when confronted by her superiors. Now, give her some authority, and she takes it. I rather regretted having come at all.

It seemed better to spend as little time in the house as possible. I threw myself into the usual Paris social round – theatre, a couple artist workshops, that hideous garret Fernier is working out of these days (and caught a cold myself after an evening spent there). None of it was satisfying, but it was better than being in Marseille. Sébastien seemed to hover over everything, though no one mentioned him. He had been gone too long for any of them to care. I did follow a boy home one night, and the result was brilliant. At last I could set everything aside, even if for a night, to bury my sorrows in the muscular arms of an artist's model. But it was rather odd to wake up in the morning next to an utter stranger. I hadn't done it in so long, particularly not with artistic boys in Paris. The last time was a prostitute in Florence. And it seemed somehow shameful to return to the house mid-morning, to wash myself and change clothes, with Julien knowing I had been out all night and probably thinking I had done what I had done. But he said nothing.

The lawyers finally wrote me asking why a M. Pontmercy was looking into my business. I told them to give him whatever he asked for, that it was a personal matter, not a business matter, and thus I had retained a private attorney to keep the business separate. Of course they could not have believed me – I used a man from that firm when drawing up the marriage contract with Hélène. But I don't pay them for their approval.

Pontmercy wrote a few days later, asking that I visit him to further discuss the case. His pretty wife was present yet again and greeted me with a smile before leaving her husband to talk over my business.

"Are your motives honest?" he asked me directly.

"Pardon me?"

"Are your motives honest? His fair share is fully half your estate, and he may be legally entitled to it."

"He won't take an even split."

"If he does not produce recognised heirs, then he can transfer up to half his holdings without penalty. I am not comfortable going so far. I will not work with you to defraud him."

"Then let us see what can be done. Perhaps we will worry about the business later, but the real estate swaps are necessary, as is the division of all bank shares so that he may draw the interest himself."

Pontmercy proved pleasant to work with. Once it was settled what he would not do, he diagrammed out the relevant holdings and the ways in which swaps could be made. The Marseille property was actually worth more than the Paris property, meaning that for the sake of equity, more of the bank shares had to be transferred to Julien. The real property not connected to the company does not form anything close to half our holdings, I may admit, so the afternoon's work was only the beginning of what would have to be done. Still, Pontmercy agreed to draw up the relevant papers for what, to him, was the first piece and to me was hopefully as far as it would go.

When I returned to the house, Julien and Lucie were out. I did not ask where, and no one volunteered the information. They returned home in time for dinner. He was explaining something to her – they must have been at a lecture of some sort – and sounded nearly happy. I was glad that he was getting out of the house, going about in public, engaging in activities that interested him, but taking her along with him, still? Did he still need her as a crutch? Or was there something more, since he had been separated from my wife?

I reminded myself at dinner that I should not miss dinner at all – the woman had a marvelous way with savoury pastry as well as sweet – and that I should ask Lucie how she managed to find such a cook. I also finally told Julien what business had brought me to Paris and with whom I was conducting it.

"Pontmercy? Whatever possessed you to go to him?"

"He is a lawyer who already knows you are not dead."

"Anyone I pass in the street knows I am not dead."

"You know what I mean. Someone for whom the requisite division of the property would not be a shock."

"You inherited in full and have been very generous. I will be fine."

"But I will not. I will not have possibilities and fears hanging over my head. We will make the transfers so that you are not defrauded of your rightful inheritance. This is France, not England."

"What is it you intend to do?"

"You will sign over your half of the Marseille property to me. I will sign over my half of the Paris property to you. The bank shares will be divided so that each of us takes a split but with extra compensation on your side as the Marseille property was assessed slightly greater than the Paris property. This will enable you to draw interest on the bank shares yourself, and I will not have to make you an allowance every month."

"What effect will this have on Hélène and the children?" he asked solemnly.

"None at all. For the moment, we will let the business remain as it is, if you agree."

"Do as you must. But Pontmercy?"

"You will have to sign the papers once they are drawn up, and then you never have to see him again."

"Could you not have used a stranger?"

"And trumpet our catastrophe to the high heavens?"

He sighed, but he agreed to it.

I did manage to get Lucie alone again. "I need to know what is going on. For his sake."

"Nothing is going on."

"The staff?"

"When we returned, Thérèse was the only one here. Mme Bonnart was gone. Gave no notice, and if she told Thérèse where she was going, Thérèse wouldn't tell me. His letter arrived and Mme Bonnart took off. That's all I know Thérèse wanted to go, too, so M. Julien wrote her a reference. I can't handle the house all on my own, so I went to the agency that placed me here, and asked for a cook and two housemaids. We couldn't take it anymore after a week – she was only satisfactory if you drank your dinner, which she did. Complained about the amount of wine given to servants, which I haven't changed from your father's day. I'm trying to keep things as they have always been, and it isn't easy. So we let her go and were lucky enough to engage Mlle Frémillard."

"Through the agency?"

Now Lucie flushed and looked down. "M. Radet knows her family. M. Julien doesn't know."

Radet was certainly intending to be her beau if he weren't already. "Will you send her in to see me?"

She obeyed. I was still her employer; it was my eight hundred francs a year that paid her salary, my money that paid for the rest of the staff until the papers were signed. But I suspected that she obeyed me only because she received her pay from me, not because she was still in the habit of obeying. She was running the house.

"You wished to see me, monsieur?" Mlle Frémillard was far too young for such an accomplished cook. We may have been paying her rather more, but it was certainly below the salary she ought to command, or perhaps would command were she older.

"What is your name?"

"Marie-Lys Frémillard, monsieur."

"Where were you before this?"

"The Restaurant Frémillard. My father's business. I helped in the kitchen."

"Not a successful one, I take it."

"It was at first. We sold up when he died, but we've never been in debt."

"My brother tells me he was a pastry chef."

"Yes, monsieur. In the Tuileries, for Charles X."

"1830 must have been poor year for your family."

"Not at all. He'd wanted to go on his own for a while, and it was easier to start a business under Louis Philippe."

"Are you satisfied here?"

"Yes, monsieur. I have no assistants, but I have more control over what I do. There are only two palates to please, and I have free reign. And no one has yet said I do not belong in a kitchen, which is a pleasant change. The room is comfortable enough. I've had permission to buy what equipment I needed that was not already here. I've heard most houses would not be so accommodating, and I thank you, and M. Combeferre, and Mlle Godbout."

"Lucie is your mistress?"

She looked at me in confusion. "She is M. Combeferre's secretary."

So that's what he was calling her now, secretary. "Of course. Forgive me. She had a different title when last I saw her. You may go. Oh, and the puff pastry last night was the best I've ever tasted, restaurant or anywhere. One doesn't expect such finesse from a woman's hands."

"Thank you, monsieur."

"Have you any experience in Vienna pastry?"

"I'm sorry, monsieur, I do not. No one will take a woman to apprentice."

"Never mind. You do the classics very well indeed. That is all."

Too bad for Paris that she was a woman, and I was sorry I had never patronised that restaurant. If she cooked like that, her father's food must have been sublime. But his death had certainly been to our gain. And possibly to Radet's good fortune.

At the end of November, Pontmercy finally wrote to say that the documents were ready and should we prefer that he bring them here or that we visit him?

"What does it matter?" Julien asked irritably. "I have to endure his presence regardless."

"Have you no curiosity about him?"

"I do not poke my nose into other people's business with the relish you do."

Except he agreed to go to Pontmercy's. The day was grey and drizzling, but he paused to look around when we stepped out of the cab. The maid took our hats and coats and ushered us into the salon where Pontmercy waited. We greeted each other on friendly terms, though he looked at Julien warily, a sense that did not fade even after they shook hands as amicably as possible. "I would like to go over the papers with both of you, so that there is agreement before signing."

"Of course." Julien fumbled in his pocket and, with some embarrassment, put on a pair of spectacles. How had it taken none of us less than nine months to realise that middle age was the only thing wrong with his eyes? No wonder that pamphlet had given him a headache – blackletter was hard enough when it wasn't blurry.

We went through all the papers, Julien asking occasional questions. Nothing required modification, however, and everything was signed. Julien now owned the Paris house and all its contents. He put away the spectacles once he no longer had to read anything.

He thanked Pontmercy, not entirely out of bare courtesy, either. "It cannot have been an easy process to untangle."

"I have not touched the business itself, which is where the real tangles must be. Would you stay a bit?" Pontmercy dared ask. "My wife would like to meet you."

"Very well," Julien agreed. Pontmercy had been on his best behaviour and had not spent the afternoon staring at Julien's face every few minutes.

Mme Pontmercy was introduced and, being better bred than her husband, took one look at the bad side of his face, changed her expression not at all, and proceeded never to let her eyes pass over it again. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, monsieur. My husband speaks so highly of you."

"Does he indeed?"

She smiled. "You may be modest, but he is not. Have you found Paris greatly changed?" And they proceeded to talk about the city, the entertainments, what had gone up and what had come down in the past sixteen years. Pontmercy interjected occasionally, but the conversation was really between Julien and Mme Pontmercy.

He did seem to like women better than men these days – Lucie, my wife, Mme Pontmercy, who wrinkled her nose like a child when something displeased her and yet was still utterly charming about it. I had not had the opportunity to note his true opinion of women before – the only one I saw him with in any frequency was my mother, and if we expand to those who were mentioned in my youth, we can only add Isabelle Laurier. He had been at school, at the medical school, at the law faculty; I had been young and isolated or at school. I had thought he lived in a wholly male world, and that was why his brief steps in society annoyed him, but he was too comfortable with women for that. They may bear him no malice, but that did not seem it at all, not when he had more interest in Mme Pontmercy than in her husband, his old acquaintance. Not that Pontmercy seemed to see anything wrong, and not that Julien was in any way becoming too familiar, but there was a comfort there. Perhaps it was merely helpful that Mme Pontmercy knew those things that were necessary and nothing that was not and had sought to make the acquaintance herself.

When we finally took our leave, Julien was in a far better mood than when we arrived. He praised Pontmercy for his charming wife, and Pontmercy seemed grateful for the compliment. "Cosette is so happy you were willing to see her."

"Her father was a good man, and he raised a fine daughter." He bid Pontmercy good day, but without the malice that had characterised their last meeting. Everything was a complete success.

"I'll shift to a hotel tomorrow," I told Julien in the cab on the way home.

"Don't be absurd. Why should you not stay?"

"I entered as the master of the house, and that is no longer the case."

"You are welcome to visit any time. But in future, some notice would be appreciated." I think I flushed, but he smiled.


	13. Chapter 13

To wake as a guest in what had been one's home is a dislocation I had never thought to experience. The servants will answer the bell just as they did before, but you will swear it is out of politeness, not because you are at all qualified to give them orders. I had washed and dressed before I realised that the maid who had brought the water had no notion of the change in my circumstances; to her, I had been the guest the entire time. She saw no reverse in my fortunes.

When I signed the papers, I had not considered that I might, indeed, feel any loss. I had kept more than would have been my legal right, I had safeguarded Julien's future, and I had not let the property go out of the family. I had spent more of my life in Marseille than I did in the house in Paris – how could I have brought Sébastien under my father's roof? But since my father's death, I had changed nothing about the house; after a single month of residence, Julien had made a housemaid his housekeeper, hired new staff, begun to put a very different stamp on the life of the house. Not a bit of redecorating had yet been done, yet surely he would commence the moment I left, destroying the home of our childhood winters into something unrecognisable. He would have to, if he hated the way Marseille was full of memories. Hélène had done much the same in Marseille, with my permission.

At dinner that night, I asked him what his plans might be, now that he had a proper home and a steady income. "I am grateful that you have accepted your inheritance. I hope this means that you intend to stay for some time."

"I shall stay so long as I might," he answered noncommittally. "The more important question, in the near term, is how long you shall stay."

"I should leave on the first."

"You will need to vote at home."

"There is little to vote for, so far as I have seen, but having been an elector before, I should not abrogate my duty in the face of the mob."

"I suppose you intend, then, to vote for Cavaignac."

I had not yet made up my mind, but the pacification of Paris was a very different matter to leading the entire state. I said as much, but I could not admit that a vote for Cavaignac would seem a betrayal of my own brother. The pacification of Paris had sadly been necessary, but it had hit him badly. Perhaps because it came from Cavaignac – it was rumoured his successes in Algeria happened only because he had refused to take part in the pacification of Paris in 1832. "The choices all around are not good. If not Cavaignac, then who? Bonaparte is a joke – his uncle worked his way to the top, but what has the nephew ever done of any value? A few months ago, he could not even enter the country without arrest, brought on himself with his failed plots. Lamartine is eager, and at least he has legislative experience, but so does Cavaignac. I suppose you have thrown in with Ledru-Rollin."

"What else can I do? We must keep moving forward – you agree with that, I believe."

"After nine months, we cannot go back. The dislocations would be ridiculous in reverse."

"I am glad you are too young to have heard the stories of the White Terror."

"I did hear, but they must have been more frightening in the moment. Particularly with father being who he was."

"He was too well in with the English by that point. Children should not have to learn the meaning of alliances through worries that their father will be massacred by victors who were never in the right."

Julien was born less than a year after Napoleon Bonaparte declared himself emperor; I was a complete product of the Restoration. The age difference manifested as much in the generation to which we each belonged as in the numerical calculation of our dates of birth. "Do you think the bonapartists will transfer their loyalties to the nephew?"

"It's hard to say. Cavaignac ought to be their choice if they did, indeed, form loyalties based on the man rather than the image. If they are idolators, however, they will vote for the nephew. There are enough idolators for him to have won four seats in the chamber of deputies, after all."

"Would you prefer Cavaignac to Bonaparte?"

"A man with whom I have serious disagreements or a man who has failed his only tests? I prefer Ledru-Rollin."

"But of the two?" I pressed.

"The regime needs stabilisation. I must accept the effective over the ineffective. I trust neither of them, but I fear Bonaparte is precisely the wrong image to send the world, particularly if the executive is to make any real decisions at all."

"Cavaignac is the closest we can get to a Washington?"

"That is a depressing notion. But yes, Washington put down rebellions, too, though I should not like to give Cavaignac the honour of the comparison."

"What rebellions?"

"I shall look it up later."

Indeed, after dinner, he went immediately to the library and began pulling books from the shelves in complete distraction. He shouted for Lucie to bring more light – she also brought his spectacles. "Why can I never find what it is I want? Did you pile things in boxes without regard for order then pile the contents here again?"

"Yes," I admitted. "What else would you have had us do?" I was pulled out of school for the time at my father's insistence – having lost one son, he must have wanted to keep me close. As a sudden day student, I had time to go with him on errands such as the clearance of Julien's flat. We brought several crates and a servant and the three of us packed up the books, the clothes, the carpet – anything the concierge disavowed. We had no time to be careful of order when the servant could not read English or German and father was shaking whenever he lit upon something desperately personal or hopelessly socialist. They went into the boxes, and the boxes went into the storeroom. Later, when my mother had made her departure permanent, the books came out of the boxes, and order matters less in a totem than it does in a library.

"Ah, here we go." He had at last found the volume he wanted. Flipping through the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration, he was a wholly familiar sight from childhood despite the grey in his hair. "In 1794, men who disapproved of a tax on whiskey attacked and held hostage a federal official who had been sent to deliver subpoenas to non-compliant distillers. This appears to have been the beginning of an armed insurrection in the western part of Pennsylvania. Washington ordered a large militia be recruited and sent to maintain order. Most of the men who were calling for secession were arrested or fled into the western wilderness, but only two men were convicted of crimes: one for assault and arson, and the other for theft. It was not much of an insurrection, it appears. Still, it proves the American system had something right: crimes against persons rather than against the state were punished, most of those arrested were released, and no laws followed restricting the freedom of assembly. They call it the Whiskey Rebellion."

"How perfectly American." I was probably sarcastic, but he did not chastise me for it.

"So there is your Cavaignac."

"Washington fought Indians, too," I added.

"What has that to do with anything?"

"I thought you must object to Cavaignac's service in Algeria."

"I wish I could have no opinion on that mess. It was a mess before we went in, and so far as I can tell, we have made it no better. Soldiers are killed now, rather than sailors kidnapped. Our funds go to the massacre of civilians rather than the redemption of our citizens. I thought it a poor outing when we began, and now, after a lifetime, we are still there, and it is still ungovernable. Making it a penal colony will only be worse. Perhaps a general disdain for the natives will be enough to prevent an alliance of our revolutionaries and their resistance, but I see no good coming of it. You cannot be in favour of the expedition – in a business sense, what does Algiers produce that you can sell?"

"They buy, and they need everything to cross the Mediterranean."

"So you have contracts with the previous government and hope to maintain them with the new one. You will transport the prisoners."

"That, I daresay, we will not do," I replied, somewhat ashamed of what the business suddenly seemed. But our father had smuggled during the war, I knew, and we traded with the sugar islands, so it was hardly worse to profit off an increase in Mediterranean trade. "I can't imagine the rate would be at all worth the necessary conversions."

"You have a better opinion of the transportation of prisoners than I do. What conversions could possibly be needed if men are not to have privacy or comfort?"

"You know better than I that we have no history in the slave trade, but I have traveled enough to have seen the smugglers. I hope the government could not be so cruel as to treat its own citizens, even recalcitrant ones, in the same manner as the blockade runners of Havana, but there is a basic element of comparison. The cargo is composed of men who do not wish to be there. Therefore, they must be fed, they will produce waste, and they must be chained for the protection of the crew. Yes, the journey is only thirty hours by steam, but why should a new ship be wasted on such a potentially damaging cargo, so let us say three days if the wind is unfavourable. One whole day to load them aboard, and they must be chained while the ship is docked. Four or five days in chains, plus they must be given food and water and have the opportunity to relieve themselves. I have nothing to chain them to, and I certainly will not allow ring bolts to be put in merely for this. Father would never have allowed it, and neither will I. This is a disgusting conversation; please forgive me." I noted then that Julien looked pale. It had been a disgusting conversation – any mention of the slave trade is, which is why I am not in the habit of describing the wharfs in Havana and Sao Paulo – but it had, inadvertently, been my topic.

The decanter was still in its place, still contained some golden brandy. I poured a stiff tot for him. "Sit. I'm sorry. I am truly sorry." He did sink into a chair and accept the glass. "How awful of me to have forgotten that I can't just -" I broke off.

He took a sip and winced. "You cannot just do what?"

"It's nothing," I tried to correct. "How awful of me to have forgotten."

"At least you have the luxury of forgetting whatever it is you will not tell me."

He sounded as if we were about to start an argument, and I admit I gave in to the temptation. "Do you want me to tell you? Fine. I already know I'm an idiot. I was going to say that I had forgotten I cannot just talk to you like an ordinary person."

But he did not take the bait. "Circumstances have not permitted me to be an ordinary person for many years. You needn't worry for my feelings on that score," he added bitterly.

"That isn't what I meant," I insisted, though with compassion rather than force. "I meant I should never have brought up Algeria at all, though it seemed to me the natural progression."

"Then we should have no conversation at all if I am incapable of seeing beyond the connections to the difficult part of my past. You have never had anything to do with any government, so their actions are not your fault."

"Their presence in the conversation is."

"They exist whether or not you discuss them, and should I wish to consider the state my country is in, certain topics cannot forever be avoided. I was kept out of the world for far too long; I should not be protected from it now."

But he went to bed soon after and did not come down at all the next day. I knew well enough what I had done: he knew his mind, and topics that hit too near the mark were his to bring up, not mine.

I left two days later. We did not bring up Algeria again, nor did we further discuss the presidential election. Instead, I went about on my final errands before the holidays. Gifts had to be bought for Hélène and the children, visits and goodbyes made to the Paris circle, a final attempt made with Fernier's model. Unfortunately, though Edgar was blond and Alsatian, he expected any regular attachment to come with benefits beyond the physical pleasures of the body. You may laugh, or suggest that I could do far worse than a well-chiseled Alsatian artist's model, but I was not looking for a new lover. Indeed, it would have been cruel to steal Fernier's model out from under him, even if the young man was looking to solidify his place in the world. I suggested to him that perhaps, after Fernier's painting was finished, I would be in a better position to consider his offer. He shrugged and answered, "If I have nothing better. If you have nothing better. When the painting is done, perhaps we will see." Guzman said Edgar did not actually share our tastes, that he was simply out to make his fortune however he might, but you know Guzman is an ass. He can't help it, being a Spaniard. Nothing in that line has ever been proved against Edgar.

To return home was to find Hélène greeting me in the hall. "Was your trip successful?"

"We have done what is necessary. He should be firmly established in Paris, if that is your next question."

"Will he come for Christmas?" She sounded too eager for my liking.

"He has been invited. We did not discuss it further before I left."

But she did not show any disappointment. "He must decide what is best. I hope the journey was not too tiring. At least the rain has stopped."

"Just in time for the wind?"

"Almost certainly."

She was pleasant to me for two full weeks. The election came and went – I returned my ballot for Cavaignac, but less than one and a half million of my countrymen preferred evidence to promises. Nearly five and a half million votes for a man who had done nothing with his life except attempt to trade on his famous name. I received a letter from Julien that must have been scribbled out the moment he read the papers with the preliminary results.

"Lamartine has made himself a laughingstock, but it is just as well, for this entire nation has become the laughingstock of the world, I fear. If Louis XVI could have stood, I have no doubt he would have made a respectable showing, since a vaguely familiar name alone is all it takes. For all that the first Bonaparte did, he destroyed the whole thing. Does no one remember that the monarchy returned because he lost every advance he made during the wars of revolution? The nephew is a fool if he thinks he can last any length of time before he is proved vastly inferior to his predecessor. We have signed ourselves up for four years of nothing in order to institute a system not entirely suited to our country. Perhaps I shall have to throw my lot in with the businessmen after all, if I am not to live out these years in utter despair. Your people will not permit him to be an incompetent fraud, while my people could not muster one-tenth of the number of votes necessary to be heard by anyone but ourselves. The villages are backward and ignorant and have proved that to the benefit of Bonaparte. Why do we so often set ourselves up for heartbreak?

"I have decided to send Lucie to visit her mother. If the invitation still stands, I intend to arrive in Marseille on the twenty-second and stay through the new year. Please let me know immediately if I would be an imposition."

"Of course he is not an imposition!" Hélène declared, her face lighting up when I read his addendum aloud. "It will be a real Christmas this year, with family and everything."

"He's one additional person. It's hardly whatever grand family occasion you must be dreaming of."

"But it is easier with more adults, don't you think? I'm sure we can get Mathieu to mass, if Julien would be agreeable to joining us, and the singing is much more fun when there are more people, and it will actually seem worth staying awake for réveillon."

She was much too happy, but she was also correct. Christmas with just her was incredibly boring, not through any direct fault of her own, but because the very idea seemed pointless. For two years of our marriage, I had contrived to be away at Christmas, so that Sébastien and I could benefit from the sympathy of spending the holiday in foreign climes, dining with strangers or business associates who sought to share their traditions, or at least their hospitality, with those who could not be with their families. But then, Christmas was always something of a disappointment after Julien was taken. Jérôme buggered off to Italy with his opera dancer quickly enough, so that I was the only child left, the last representative of the younger generation, the responsibility never forgotten. It had been disappointing as a child, too, really, since Julien and Jérôme were closer together in age and I was so far behind them. They did their best, I think, but our parents cared more for the adult conversation, Julien preferred to read to me rather than play games, and Jérôme preferred games to anything. I was accustomed to all of this due to many Sunday dinners of a similar nature, but Christmas was supposed to be something special, a celebration, and it never lived up to anyone's idea of the happy extended family, brought together for holiday cheer. Particularly in the end, it was a relief to be taken back to school, where no one had to pretend not to be miserable or bored. And if he would stay through the new year, the requisite visits could be handled in the most appropriate manner. Uncle Félix and Aunt Catherine were getting on in years, and a rude surprise could be a dangerous one at that age.

Hélène had the entire house cleaned, not merely the way she would for any other guest but, as I discovered coming home four days before his scheduled arrival, as if it were spring and a whole winter's dirt had to be dispatched. She had on an old dress, a vast apron protecting it, her sleeves rolled up, and was herself beating a carpet in the garden despite the threat of drizzle. Her exertions must have kept her warm enough, I suppose, as her face was flushed, but she was not in the least sorry when I took the paddle from her. "He has been here before. It is not my mother you need to please." She let me lead her back to the house and clung to me almost as she had in the first year of our marriage, when we were still committed to the idea of marriage rather than its reality. She let me have the servants bring her tea.

"I'm sorry. I fear we were terrible hosts last time. I just want everything to go well."

"Everything will be fine." I said it then to comfort her, but it was an incantation as much as a promise, a hope that everything would go well. Why had he felt it necessary to send Lucie to see her mother? She was being sent away – what had she done? Had she at last overstepped the great authority he had given her? Had he finally tired of her? The new girls certainly looked well enough; even the cook was not wholly ugly, and she had talents while lacking the ordinary reticence of the lifelong servant. He had created for himself a household of young women, so why should he not have taken his pick? But to my mind, Lucie, dressed as she had been, was the most attractive of the lot. Surely Lucie had not been sacked. Perhaps he merely thought he was at last capable of spending some time outside her care and thus instructed her to use her free time more wisely than had she stayed in close proximity to Radet. I could approve of such measures.

Julien arrived in a drizzle of rain. Hélène was anxious, pacing and wringing her hands. The last time I had seen her so nervous was when she was waiting to meet my father for the first time. There was none of the fear she had so lately had for Julien, but there was none of the assurance she had had at his departure, either. The seven years of our marriage seemed not to exist for a moment, despite the white cap covering her dark hair. "Everything will be fine," I tried to reassure her, taking her hands in mine, but she did not believe me as she once did. But she finally retreated to her sitting room and forced herself to flip through the pages of a book. I was admittedly rather nervous myself, as this visit was on different terms than his first, and she did not object to my presence in her quarters.

When at last the bell rang, she popped up from her chair like a jack-in-the-box figure, though I believe I burst into the hall in advance of her. Julien had hardly managed to give his hat and scarf to the maid when we arrived, dots of rain just visible on his shoulders. He had taken care to present the good side of his face to her, so that we were immediately confronted with the scar. I looked quickly to Hélène, but she did not flinch for a moment. She did not throw herself at him, thank god, but she stepped straight over to him and greeted him with the warmth she only shows to her friends.

"It is so good to see you."

"How was the journey?" I asked, not entirely to cut her off but to at least give him a moment to get out of his wet coat.

"It is better in the winter than in the summer, I think. The same amount of smoke but much less dust." Once divested of his coat, he embraced both of us in turn. "I am afraid the rain followed me from Paris."

"You just missed the mistral, I'm afraid," Hélène told him.

"It will come again soon enough, I fear, should I remember the meteorology."

"I thought you did not know the winters of Marseille."

"I only spent the one here, but you and I know more from other people's research than from our own."

I was rather taken aback by his insinuation of familiarity with my wife, even on such an innocuous topic as meteorological research, particularly because she did not bother to hide her pleasure at the compliment. "I'm sure you'd like to wash up after such a long trip."

"If I might."

"Of course. Coffee in Hélène's sitting room at three?"

He nodded his agreement and followed the maid up the stairs to his room. I turned on Hélène. "Could you at least refrain from making eyes at him in front of me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered coldly. "I am pleased to see him, yes. You know perfectly well how boring my life is, and I would rather listen to him talk of meteorology than hear you complain about the weather."

"They are the same thing."

"Then shall I tell you again that your paintings are very pretty and I like the colours?"

I had been rather short with her once when she clumsily attempted to praise a landscape I had made in Venice. Venice turns everyone into a would-be Canaletto. Her point was well taken, but she was still in the wrong. "It simply isn't right that you have those interests. Women are not made for science."

"I hope I have not suggested that I am!" she complained, appalled at the suggestion. "It is only a vague interest and meager understanding that I have, but Julien likes talking about these things, and I like listening to such conversation. It is not unwomanly to seek to make your brother at ease in your home, is it? Oh, why must we argue now?" she burst out. "You've been home weeks and only now do we begin to fight. It is only three days until Christmas."

"You expect far too much from this visit, I think."

"Perhaps I do. Oh, what if I do?" she asked in anguish. "I just want everything to go well. I haven't had a thoroughly nice Christmas in so long, and neither has he, and neither have you, have you?"

She was right about that much – the Christmases I spent abroad with Sébastien during our marriage were hardly ideal, though they were better than the ones I spent with her. There was a time when I was at university when I abandoned the family and had a bohemian celebration with friends, where no one cared that Sébastien and I were wrapped around each other all evening, where love poetry was read in the name of God and toasted in cheap champagne, where everyone was young and broke and momentarily happy. Youth was all too brief. "We can only do our best. You must calm down, otherwise he will wonder what is wrong." I did feel rather sorry for her at the moment – she was terribly agitated again and clinging to me as if I could save her from her nerves. She was agitated in precisely the wrong way about my brother, but she clung to me rather than shake me off, and I was flattered that she would still trust me in extremis.

Julien came to us at precisely the hour we had requested, and coffee and sweets were brought in. Hélène had managed to stop shaking, but she looked a little too bright in his presence, as if she were trying too hard to make up for the diffidence she had shown when he had turned up in the summer. "I hope you have been keeping yourself well in Paris. Charles told me you were doing some work on the house."

Julien gave me a strange look, probably because he thought I had been lying. "Only some changes in staff. I have not had the time to consider anything more."

"Would you consider something more?" I found myself asking.

"As I said, I have not had the time to consider it."

"I believe we still have the invoices from some of the work we had done here – the wallpaper all came from Paris of course and much of the new furniture. It was only a few years ago, after all. If you could possibly have any interest in that sort of thing."

"I'm sure such a project was a welcome call on your time."

"But you, of course, have more important ways to spend your time."

"Would you really consider redecorating?" I asked directly.

"I had not taken the time to think about it – how can one think about it when one lives as a guest? I thoroughly approve of what you have done here, madame. One cannot live always in the past."

"But one should not run roughshod over the past either, I think."

"Good taste has always seemed to me to involve in the judicious combination of old and new. Perhaps that is why the periods of great advance always look back to the Greeks and Romans a bit. I have enjoyed the pieces of local colour you have added. I think my mother at times resented that her palatial country home was in the unfashionable South."

"Some of that was Charles' idea."

"Really? I had thought the entire project was in response to certain events that would preclude your having an opinion."

"We modernised the guest rooms almost immediately after mother's death," I explained. "And why should we reject father's heritage in favour of hers just because his family abandoned us. This is the Combeferre family seat, as the English might say."

"Have you been to America on your travels?" he asked.

"New York once, but never to New Orleans or wherever Aunt Françoise supposedly went."

"One of our father's older sisters went to the Louisiana colony with her husband before our father even married," Julien explained. "I suppose Charles has told you why we know nothing on the Combeferre side of the family."

"Yes, and I can understand. My father chose the Navy over the Army, and I think that was something your father and my father might have had in common. They respected the English Navy for being very good at what they did, and that made the Restoration easier, didn't it?"

"We were civilian through and through, but yes, the Navy did not have quite the number of heads rolling as the Army did, if I remember the history rightly. The Army is derived from the peasant levies great landowners could once be asked to pull together – and which they would not do in force if they did not particularly like the king making the request. As an institution, it was based more on loyalty to an individual than loyalty to the state. The Navy was always a professional body in comparison, and loyalty to the state, regardless of the government, was its animating force. But the Navy was really based at Toulon, so I saw little of it in my childhood."

"No, that does sound right. In the end, my father took an inheritance and bought his own ship, as he was uncertain he would make captain through the ranks after the wars were over. He did quite well for himself, and for us, but I don't think his family back in Lyon ever really approved. We tried to visit them once, but I don't remember very much. My cousins preferred active games and called me boring and Sylvie sided with them, which was not at all nice of her. I was glad that we never went back to Lyon." She had started toying with her skirt, an old habit when in distress over her family. We were grateful when her mother decided to move to Brest with Sylvie and her husband, as it was one less distraction for Hélène. "Please forgive me," she suddenly apologised. "We were speaking of decorating. The peasants here are fond of bright colours, and Charles says that is not the case in other parts of France. He thought, and I agreed, that some of the bright yellows and reds and blues of which they are so fond, which are very much the colours of Provence, might look very well in the house. Charles is a great admirer of his own country."

"I see. I had not known."

"It came on me rather later," I tried to explain. Hélène still looked distracted, and Julien was looking at her with a worried expression on his face. I babbled something about troubadour poets and Marseillais sailors, probably added how our father had known the local patois in order to better converse with the dockworkers and sailors, and then explained how you bought your estate, complete with peasants leasing the land, and may have admitted to a certain jealousy that while I had provençal blood going back centuries, perhaps all the way back to the Greeks, you were living the real life of the local gentleman.

Julien was paying some attention for he replied, "You were forced into modernity, while I always embraced it. Perhaps that is what makes you the artist, the connection with the long tail of the past."

Hélène soon seemed better, as if now that he was here she did not have to try so hard to make him welcome, that the visit would go on naturally rather than become a production, and indeed, I was more calm the moment she seemed more calm. Things would go as they would.

The mistral returned in time for Christmas. This, of course, is nothing strange. It was unusual, however, to hear my wife shouting Julien's name, struggling to be heard over the roar of the wind.

"Come inside! You'll catch your death!" A pause for the roar of the wind. "I can't hear you!"

They were in the library – she was holding the door slightly open, trying to keep the wind from taking it. Julien was on the terrace. Hélène did not hear me enter, but how could she?

"I shall never grow tired of the sun," Julien answered loudly.

"But the wind!" she argued. She never argued so good-naturedly with me.

"Nor the wind! Come outside!"

"I shall be blown away!"

"Blown about, perhaps, but who is there to see?"

Whether she felt my presence or expected a servant, she did not jump out of her skin when she caught sight of me. She pulled the door closed. "Is it mad to step out in order to bring him back in?"

"No more mad than he was to go out in the first place."

"I'll have to close the door. Will you let us in?"

She did not sound at all annoyed by my presence, and they would not dare do anything in my presence, so I assented. She smiled at me for once and, pulling her shawl more closely around her, waited for me to open the door. The terrace is sheltered by the full width of the house, of course, but one could hear the windows rattle with every additional gust and the door would surely have been taken from my hand had I less of a grip on it. Julien took Hélène's arm and led her further out, where I could not hear them if they did speak. The wind blew Hélène's skirts forward, showing the shape of her legs despite her many petticoats. She turned toward the house for a moment, and her hand flew to her head to catch her cap, in danger of flying away entirely. As it was, it was blown back from her forehead, a long lock of hair loosened with it and blowing free. She flushed slightly with embarrassment, though she was laughing. She looked suddenly young, and had she been a different woman, I could more easily accuse her of flirting with my brother. But Hélène, though always a beauty, had never been coquettish in her youth, and she kept shaking her head as Julien pleaded with her for something, her laughter fading quickly. His request proved the removal of her cap entirely, as she at last permitted him to pull the pin which had not held it well against the wind. Her mirth was entirely gone. I had misjudged her, particularly as they almost immediately came inside.

"Please excuse me; I must put myself back together. Only men can survive that wind at all intact."

Julien was proof of that. I still remembered the prison pallor and welcomed the heightened colour in his face. The wind had taken his hair wildly, giving him something of the look of a mad artistic genius.

"What were you doing out there?"

"I haven't felt this wind in twenty years."

"You'll catch your death."

"How can I, of all people, fear the wind?"

"Many a war hero has been felled by pneumonia."

"After sixteen years in the damps, pneumonia has proved it does not want me. The air is perfectly dry in any case."

"Seriously, what were you doing out there?"

"Feeling the sun and wind."

"With my wife?"

"Why not? You have been kind enough to join me in the Paris drizzle."

"Women are more delicate."

"Women bear children and nurse the sick – their weaknesses are not in this direction. If I were in the wrong, she would have refused to come out."

"You can be a hard man to refuse."

"Now you are speaking nonsense." There was no fire, as the wind had a tendency to blow the smoke back down the chimney and smother the fires entirely, but he paced in front of the fireplace as if he might warm himself before that cold entrance. "Has she enjoyed having you at home? She seems happier than at my last visit."

"She is merely no longer frightened of you," I decided to explain rather than more accurately attribute her mood to his presence alone.

"You do no better?"

"We have not properly fought since I returned from Paris, so I suppose that is something."

"Is it?"

More than two weeks without an argument, and none of it directly attributable to his presence: it was not much, but it was something. I was more interested in the bent of his questioning. If he had not taken my wife outside to flirt with her, did he refrain only until he might be certain to what extent she was still my wife? "I do not need you to repair my marriage."

"It would take far longer than a few months to replace even half of what was damaged." At least he did not directly accuse me of damaging it. Did that mean he accepted that Hélène must share some blame? "But I like to see her smile."

So did I, but I preferred when she smiled at me, or at Florence Dutilleul, than when her spirits were predominantly due to Julien. But she interrupted us before I could formulate an innocent reply. It would not do to have either of them think me suspicious of their motives.

She had merely pinned back her hair and replaced her cap, but I was suddenly sorry to see her so covered, despite my own worries and jealousies. While I was glad she paid attention to her position as my wife, I had to admit it had been pleasant for a moment to again see her young and happy. She had recovered her thrown composure and looked at us curiously. "Have you been talking about me?"

Ordinarily, I hated that she had learned not to keep her observations to herself, but today, a flush of wind still in her cheeks, I could not be annoyed. "I was about to observe that I like to see you smile."

The mistral continued through Christmas. Though the wind usually died down at night, it seemed safer not to take Mathieu to mass. Hélène was disappointed. "But you so enjoyed the ordinary mass!" she said to Julien.

"I shall enjoy the private celebrations of the day just as well." Later, he admitted that a mass was said for the prisoners at Christmas and Easter, though he had not heard one in some time as the men from the solitary cells were not brought up to listen. "I have had holiday masses enough; cathedral choirs were what I lacked."

It was the second Christmas since my father's passing, but the first the house was not in mourning. I had left orders for the purchase of the _chalendal_, and the huge olive log sat ready in the fireplace in the grand salon, there to bring blessings on the household in the coming year. I offered Julien, as the eldest son, the cruet of oil, but he refused. "You are the head of the family." So long as my father was alive, I was glad to subordinate myself to him I had lit the great log for years, but always with the knowledge that I merely followed my father's wishes whilst he was away in Paris. But once he was gone, head of the family seemed a title both paltry and terrifying. Hélène and I were all that was left of the family; my aunts, my father's sisters, had scattered to the four winds long before my birth. But the family also meant the business; indeed, one could easily feel the business more important than my marriage. I had had years to grow accustomed to the idea of head of the household; I paid my taxes and became an elector. But head of the family required a seriousness of purpose that Julien had always had. I think he understood just what he was saying, for he looked as solemn as I felt when he refused the cruet of oil.

As head of the family, then, I anointed the log, not of our land, with the oil, not of our land, and lit the fire, praying silently that the wind would not blow it out. The servants gathered in the darkness around the periphery of the room; Hélène held down the children as we all knelt and I led the household in prayer. I felt Julien's eyes on me: I am not the orator he was, or my father was, nor have I the clever turns of phrase Sébastien could always command. I feared my prayer too simple, not for God, but for my other audience. Yet after the amens were said, Julien added only a line in Latin. Hélène gasped, and I turned sharply, in time to share his bittersweet smile. Our father always added a line to remember the household gods, insisting that our ancestors had burned the chalendal when Marseille was still Massalia. Julien, despite the way his words sometimes whistled through his chipped teeth, had sounded so much like our father in that moment that I was as surprised as Hélène, though I knew I should not have been. We had always recognised Julien as our father's son; it was only right that he take our father's place. And while it was our Christmas celebration, at having him restored to us, his celebration of freedom was still tempered with mourning.

I rose to embrace him, Mathieu asking, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, my dear," Hélène explained. "Your uncle sounded so much like your grandfather it took me by surprise, that is all."

"Why don't I remember my grandfather?"

"His health was poor," I lied. "He was too sick in the last few years to come see us. But you saw him often when you were Julie's age." In truth, I dared not let my father visit us after the incident with Sébastien. I tried my best to keep my failure from him. All was quickly forgotten, however, as Mathieu thought to dance Julie around in the firelight, spinning her so that she bumped her head on a table and began wailing.

"Now look what you have done!" Hélène scolded him. She looked helplessly at Julie. "You should have more care for your sister." The servants had scattered at the first sign of paganism from Julien.

"I'm sorry!" Mathieu announced, self-satisfied, of no use to a crying baby.

The nurse was finally coming, but I scooped Julie into my lap. "My poor baby. Let us see where the hurt is." Hélène began to chastise me for taking off her cap, but I told her, "I'll put it back on in a moment." Hélène is nothing like our mother – our mother insisted that we grow up into society as quickly as possible, while Hélène is merely timid and questions why she does not take naturally to children but refuses to ask advice from anyone about it – but Julie wants demonstrations of affection, to be smothered in embraces and covered in kisses, that Hélène is simply not suited to provide. I have the unhappy talent of being more suited to make my daughter love me than to make my wife respect me. By the time I had calmed Julie, kissed the bump several times and let her burrow into my coat, my fingers still stroking her fine childish curls, Julien had dropped to the floor with Hélène, and they were having a very serious conversation with Mathieu.

"It is not enough to say you are sorry, though it is a very good start. You must be sorry, and I know that you are. Because you know it hurts to hit your head. You are not sorry because your mother saw you, or because she tells you you must be, but because you know what it means to be hurt. You are not sorry because she is your sister but because she is a living being who is hurt. And you have caused that hurt. It is a sad thing for anyone to feel hurt, but it is even worse when that hurt is caused by someone else."

"Do you understand what your uncle is saying?"

"I'm sorry," he finally apologised with feeling.

"He will go to his room until dinner," Hélène told the nurse.

"But maman!"

"There will be no more excitement until late," Julien told him, "and you shall not want to miss that."

"Go on," I ordered. He finally went out sulking, propelled a little by the nurse behind him. "I'm sorry about that," I apologised to Julien, Julie still in my lap.

"It's to be expected. Children are beasts."

"How glad I am to hear you say that!" Hélène cried. Then, noting Julie, she scolded, "Put her cap back on. It is cold as anything in here."

The fire was bravely competing against the wind down the chimney, but it was indeed a battle. "All children?" I asked, doing as I was told.

"You in particular," Julien said, though with a smile. "Forgive me. My experience is limited to him and other people's children. But I think Rousseau's ideas caught on because they were easier. Man is an animal; a child is a puppy. Its instincts are to run and make noise and destroy things. Rousseau says to let them do these things outside so that their indoor training will go easier. And note he puts it off for so long a time as to render them rather more monstrous."

"I quite agree, though I have not actually read Rousseau's teachings on the subject," Hélène said. "Was Charles a beast?"

"Of course. He broke every toy I had taken care to keep nice. I was perfectly beastly myself, I'm sure."

"Don't believe him. He's never been beastly in his life."

"I broke rules that I did not care to follow. After a few times, I could even do it without guilt. Is that not the very definition of the beast that resists training?"

"But you followed the important rules, or if you broke them, I don't think it was so easy."

"It gets more difficult when one understands one's place in the world," he explained.

"Take her upstairs or Mathieu will think we are playing favourites," Hélène interrupted.

"I thought he was being punished. I am doing nothing more than favouring the victim over the attacker." But I took her upstairs anyway.

As I started up the stairs I thought I heard Hélène ask, "Is this a sign of effeminacy?", but I carried on, determined not to let it bother me. Perhaps it was a sign of effeminacy that I cared for my children and wished they could be mothered as I would prefer, but I thought it also a sign of respect for my wife that I did not castigate her for not changing her nature to conform to my wishes for my children. We muddled through every part of our marriage as best we could, conscious of our own defects. I handed Julie over to the nurse with a final kiss – how I hoped that she might stay a sweet angel, an unlooked-for blessing, rather than grow up to become the punishment for my sins I knew I deserved. When I returned to the salon, the firelight making very strange shadows over the ancestral portraits on the walls, I heard Hélène ask, "Was she beautiful?" Julien had evidently changed the topic of conversation, for which I was grateful.

"It should not matter, but yes. Fair, light on her feet, always dressed to advantage her lithe frame even if she did rather slavishly adhere to fashions I found ridiculous. But the difficulties would have been the same if she were plain because it was never about her."

"What on earth are you talking about?" I asked.

"Julien is telling me of Mlle Laurier."

"Why ever for?"

"I asked what rules he found difficult to break."

"I thought you called Isabelle Laurier a cow."

"She was at times. You were sometimes a bastard, but you never lacked a father. My frustrations were with the situation, with mother, not so much with Mlle Laurier."

"Everything comes back to mother," I reminded Hélène.

"Not everything," Julien said, "and there's the rub. Please forgive me. I'm sure you would prefer pleasant, innocuous chatter for the holiday. One expects glitter, not guilt."

"I gladly take whatever you bring because you bring it," Hélène insisted. "We have not had a family holiday in so many years that even guilt is welcome."

But we moved to Hélène's drawing room, leaving one of the servants to monitor the fire. It was colder but more comfortable without the ancestral portraits staring down at us. I cannot bring myself to put them away, but every one of them seems to disapprove of the presence of the living. Hélène had another shawl brought, and coffee, so that we might while away the time between nightfall and midnight in comfort.

One of us, I cannot remember who, had the idea to pull a volume of poetry from Hélène's bookcase. We ended up spending the evening passing Hugo back and forth, luxuriating in his version of the East.

"It is overly Romantic, of course," Julien said at one point, "but is any of it true?"

"I've been to Algiers twice," I admitted, "and it is more a garrison town than the remnants of an Eastern pasha's delight. I suspect it always has been a garrison town. I did visit Beyrouth last year to see if there were any possibilities. Perhaps. I met a Jewish trader who was interested in bringing Western ships into port, but then our government overturned itself. But again, Beyrouth is a small port town, not the great city of art and learning where there would be a point to having a gilded harem. The pasha there undoubted has a harem – they are permitted as many as four wives, I was told – but I'm sure they are all dark local girls, no pale Rumelian odalisques."

"You have not had the desire to travel to the great Eastern centres?"

I feared he was hinting at what is well-known about the East, the ready availability of young boys for sexual escapades. But I have Naples if my tastes ever turn firmly in that direction, and I have Paris for my general preferences. "I am told they have a certain beauty," I answered, "but my tastes have never been in the Oriental line. I travel where the business takes me, not for my own pleasure. I am more often in the Indies than in the Eastern Mediterranean."

He returned to the poems then, letting the subject drop. I did not at all like that he would make such an insinuation in front of my wife. But then, his tone had been perfectly innocent. I could read in what I liked, but that did not mean he had intended to cut at me on Christmas, of all days. Hélène did not look as if she had thought anything amiss in the question. Or was that because she had put him up to asking it? She had been the one to select_ Les Orientales_. But then, if she did care what I got up to on any of my trips, she would ask me directly, unfortunately. I should never have put my wife in a position to be able to ask me directly about those activities. You would not do that to your wife. And perhaps she had selected the book because it would be familiar to Julien from his youth. If that were the case, then it was a kind gesture and not in the least her fault that such a question had come up. Later in the evening, I remember the Arabic student who had been my tutor for a few months. Perhaps that was all that had been in Julien's head, the possibility that I had had any interest in that man's personal studies. I cannot even remember the man's name.

Christmas passed agreeably, perhaps better than if we had gone to mass. Mathieu nearly slept through the festivities, but it was just as well. We sat around the fire and drank champagne and picked at the salads and cakes the servants had left for us, while they had their own festivities in the kitchen. It was a sort of summer informality transferred to the middle of winter; it felt like nothing so much as sitting on the terrace and chatting agreeably over glasses of wine. We stayed up until nearly three, and despite the looks from my disapproving ancestors, the fire was bright enough to centre our thoughts on happier ideas, even if our conversation ranged so widely as to eclipse the reason for the celebration itself.

The mistral died down the next day, permitting the children to run about outside for a time. We try to keep Christmas a day for the children, while Hélène and I exchange gifts at the new year, and Julien had provided well in his role as uncle. He had brought with him not only a puppet theatre, but also a box of beautiful pâtes de fruits and a tin box of chocolate biscuits. Yes, _chocolate_ biscuits, still something of a rarity in those days. "Wherever did you get these?" Hélène asked in astonishment when they were presented.

"I have been lucky enough to engage a very talented cook."

"Very lucky, indeed," I agreed. "You shall not have to worry that he might skip meals."

"Your servant would hardly permit that."

"No, indeed," he agreed with Hélène, "Lucie is most solicitous of my health. It was she who engaged my pastry chef."

"Please express our gratitude to her. She has done quite well by you."

In all, it was not an exciting holiday for anyone except perhaps Mathieu, but it was an agreeable holiday to us all. Perhaps that is what we should seek in family life, the pleasant company of people we love, without expectations for anything higher. Pleasant should be pleasant enough.


	14. Chapter 14

He left two days after the new year.

"Are you sure you cannot stay longer?" Hélène asked, wrapped in a blue cashmere shawl, a new year's gift from Julien.

"I dare not. You understand the imperatives of a household, I think – I have left behind two housemaids supervised only by a cook, none of them more than three months in my employ. Lucie is due back at the same time; I should prefer that neither of us feel more blame than the other should our confidence have been misplaced."

"Do you think your confidence misplaced?"

"No, but one should not trust girls alone for too long, I think."

"Do you mind if I travel up with you?" I asked him later. "I always go up at the new year for a few days. It makes Uncle Félix and Aunt Catherine happy." I did not tell him just what I had written in the family letter. "Of course I'll stay in a hotel."

He shrugged. "Do whatever you like."

Traveling with him was more trying than I had anticipated. One had to force him into first class on the train, and even then, we had to share a compartment with Théophile Cliot and his fat wife. Julien nodded politely to them and turned to the window, which permitted him to both watch the loading of the train and somewhat hide the scarred side of his face. Since he patently did not want to be introduced, I let him be and made small talk with the Cliots for a suitable amount of time, though eventually I had to turn to the cow, who kept staring at Julien, and ask her to stop.

"It doesn't matter," he said softly.

"It matters to me," I may have snapped. "I can no longer remain in the delusion that I live among well-bred people if they cannot keep their eyes off a stranger in a train compartment."

"A stranger in a train compartment does not need you to come to his rescue." He addressed me formally on top of it all.

So that was what we were, so far as the Cliots were concerned, though no one could possibly ignore the family resemblance between us. Julien was not introduced to them; I let on no sign of greater familiarity with him than I might have already let slip. When we changed trains at Lyon, I lost sight of them, which was almost certainly for the best. There would be questions later, but at least I had peace for the moment. From Lyon to Paris, we shared a compartment with a single gentleman who settled into his corner and pretended to sleep for the entire twelve hours. I had suggested spending the night in Lyon and taking the first train the morning, so as to arrive the following evening, but Julien preferred to take the night train, pushing on as quickly as possible. Even the railway was not rapid enough for him, and he had mostly missed the benefit of the steamers up and down the Rhône between Lyon and Avignon. At the station, he insisted that I do as I prefer, that he would tell the staff to have a room aired for me so when I arrived behind him, all would be ready.

"I told you, I'll go to a hotel."

"Don't be absurd."

I followed him onto the night train and attempted to sleep, as our anonymous companion was doing. I cannot sleep on the railway – it bumps and jerks and stops in ways that a ship never will. I never could drift off in a diligence, either. Julien somehow did not seem to mind the bumps, or the fact that one can only really sit in a single position, and had turned his face to the window and slept. Perhaps he had grown used to sleeping whilst sitting: an unfortunate thought I could not entirely drop.

On the night train, in winter, the sun finally jerks above the horizon once the train slows through the environs of Paris. At least by that point, Julien had finally woken. The weather was warm enough that the train passed through a curtain of drizzle. When at last we pulled into the station in the boulevard Mazas, our anonymous companion finally opened his eyes and jumped out of the train the moment the door was opened by the station attendant. "I suppose I shall let you return to your own life; I'll find a hotel."

"You may drop the pretense. If you are staying with a man, you may as well say it. If you are staying nowhere, then you know perfectly well that you will be more comfortable and better fed should you come home with me."

I had thought I might look up Edgar, after the family business was settled, but why did the notion of staying with a man sound so tawdry on Julien's lips? "I have no man with whom to stay in the sense you imply." I may also have been touchy over the sleepless night I had just spent. "You've bloody well taken care of that, haven't you?"

"M. Ture took care of that himself," Julien replied evenly, then stalked off toward the customs tables for the cursory examination of our scant luggage.

I had no choice but to follow – I could not get a cab until the bags had been checked, and even then, I had snapped at him like a fool, and he was perfectly right that I would be more comfortable in the house that was no longer my home. "I'm sorry," I muttered after the customs officers had moved on to the next traveler.

"Now, may I talk you out of this nonsense about a hotel? You'll be surrounded by Englishmen, and they are always far more impossible abroad than they are at home."

It is to our father's credit, and our curse, that we were taught English from a young age. Business is not a war, but it is a contest, and our opponents would generally be the English. One should respect an opponent and strive to understand him, but only in order to beat him. Knowing the language, and having had it taught us by native speakers, has meant a lifetime of understanding the ridiculous, even insulting comments made by the Englishman in Paris. He finds the city filthy, the people ugly, the manners atrocious, and then he proceeds to use his most atrocious manners, to assert his native superiority even when he is completely at sea, and to forget that the foreigner in London is humble because he respects the native, not because foreigners have natural reserves of humility. But a hotel for Englishmen is invariably clean, has servants who appreciate waiting on a Frenchman, and will thus provide a better dinner because they at last have someone who will appreciate it. Julien loved the English, of course, for their literature, their art, their technology, their ideas of liberty, but the English themselves could only be tolerated in their own country.

I went home with him. The door was answered immediately by the dark-haired girl, who greeted us with a polite good morning and added, "I will bring you both water to wash. Will you want breakfast, monsieur?"

"Yes, breakfast for two," Julien answered. "You may put my brother in the room he occupied last time."

The room of course had been shut up since my departure, but she hurried ahead of me to fling open the curtains. It looked cold and abandoned in the grey winter light – a dustcover over the bureau, which she gathered up as quickly as she could, the counterpane looking suddenly faded. It was the blonde who returned with a pitcher of hot water, a towel draped over her arm and a block of soap in hand. "Please ring if you need anything else, monsieur."

"Coffee on the table at breakfast." She nodded in response.

Feeling marginally more human after a wash and a change of clothes, I waited in the dining room for Julien to descend. The cook brought out the coffee. "Is Lucie here?" I asked, looking over the newspaper rather than at her.

"Mlle Godbout should be home at any moment, I think."

Indeed, the bell rang again just as Julien poured himself out a cup of coffee. "That must be Lucie."

She came into the dining room without having removed her bonnet or left her bag – perhaps, assuming no one was yet at home, she intended to cut through to the kitchen and thence up to her room – but her eyes looked red as if she had been crying and one look at us sent her scurrying out again, her free hand covering her face in what I hoped was appropriate shame. The blonde maid popped her head in. "I'm sorry, monsieur," she apologised to Julien. "She just came barreling through without listening." Julien wandered off after her, his cup still in hand. I finished my coffee before I realised he was not coming back.

I found him in the salon, seated next to a sobbing Lucie. He looked up at my entrance and asked, "Have I done something wrong?"

He almost certainly had done at some point, but at the moment,"I should think she's crying of her own accord."

"I knew I should have said no," she said through her sobs. "You asked me to look after him, monsieur, and I did, and I should have let well enough alone."

Julien motioned for me to have a seat. "If it is wrong to reward work well done, then I shall never fit back into the world. Who could possibly have done better for me?" he asked, trying to draw her out a little further.

"That's not the point! Oh, my mother was right, you twist everything all up until it only makes sense when it's backwards."

The visit home must not have gone as happily as it might, it seemed. Julien did manage to untie her bonnet strings and ease it off, so that he might have a chance to see her face. She still wore her cloak. "If your mother thinks me a little precipitous in your promotion, it is because she does not know what you have done for me."

"I've tried to explain, and she doesn't believe me, and she's right not to. She thinks I'm ruined, and it's all your doing, and it is, only not how she thinks, but I am ruined. Who will ever believe housekeeper at twenty-four?" A fresh wave of tears ensued.

Julien tried to put his hand on her knee, the easiest way he could make a comforting gesture, but she jerked away. Was it because she was, indeed, ruined in the way her mother must think? Or was it because she feared she could still be ruined in the way her mother must think. Her mother was no fool, apparently, for she had reached the logical conclusion I had considered: Lucie was a pretty girl, but pretty housemaids were never promoted to housekeeper at the age of twenty-four. "Are you planning to leave me, that you need worry what a new employer might think?"

"I have to, if I'm to have any reputation left," she cried.

"You are my secretary, and your reputation has not been impugned by those who have an interest. I should be very sorry to ever see you return below stairs."

"My mother says I'm not to think of that, either, and she's right. I know better. I really do."

"Did your mother dump all this on you before putting you on a train home and then expect you to work? She has no sense if she did," I burst out, incredulous that such a scene was indeed happening before me.

Lucie kept wiping at her eyes, finally trying to get hold of herself. Perhaps I had for once done some good. "Please forgive me, monsieur. You're right, but I thought M. Julien would return this evening."

"Were you planning to leave me without notice?"

"No!" she insisted. "I could never do that. But I could at least put everything in order."

"Charles and I know too much about mothers who refuse to understand anything outside their own experience." He put his hand to her shoulder this time, and she permitted the touch. "If you want to leave me, one of us will write you a reference. Whichever one of us you prefer. But if she wants you to leave, because she does not understand, then you can only do what will make you happy. Radet should be sorry if you left, too, I think." She flushed darkly. "Come, I think we shall all feel better with some breakfast."

She slipped out as quietly as possible, her bonnet trailing. "What are you doing to that girl?"

"I fear I have been caught out dragging her above her station."

"I haven't enjoyed watching it, but I've held my tongue."

"And I'm grateful for that. It shouldn't be so shocking that I should want to do something for her as she has done so much for me."

"But surely you no longer have need of her. You go out, you've traveled to Marseille and back without her, what more can she do for you?"

"I enjoy her company and should think myself quite alone without her – is not that enough?"

"No, not when you know all about Radet and are willing to let that happen as well. Yes, you have your own ideas about mixing and rank and all of that sort of thing, but the fact remains that Radet should be rather below your notice, and Lucie should be rather below his. You have ruined a very good housemaid and may well permit Radet a marriage that would do little good to him."

"I have ruined a good housemaid," Julien agreed. "But I will only be sorry for it if, in the end, it does not bring her happiness. I am rather sorry for it now, for I do not like to see her cry. If she was scared when we returned and the whole running of the house fell to her, she did not show it."

"She probably showed it to her mother, who gave her that very sage advice about quitting without notice. You do realise that by taking her places, people will think you are bedding her."

"Nonsense – she looks at me with too much respect to be a kept woman. We continue in the assumption that others believe as the fishermen at Les Goudes did, that she is my daughter."

"Paris is filthier than Marseille – that hasn't changed and never will change."

"Perhaps the circles in which you travel."

"All of the circles in which I have ever traveled. If I told Uncle Félix that you took a pretty housemaid, dressed her up, and called her your secretary, he'd have a fine laugh."

Julien sighed. "I suppose you have a point. Do you have it easier? I mean, if you took a liking to a driver, could you educate him enough to enter your set?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes." He looked and sounded earnest enough that I dared tell him the truth.

"All he'd have to do is take his clothes off. I'm not saying we're shallow, but a lot of us are artists. It's easy enough to end up hanging around artists if you're an artists' model – if you're any good, you'll be passed along to friends. Models are paid, you know. But a liking for one would mean wanting him to stay around after he puts his clothes back on, permitting him to join in the discussions – eventually, there will be education of a limited sort. A good model, who is liked by his artists, knows everything about the business and the art. The only thing he doesn't know is how to do what it is we do. He has no talent with a brush. His talent is with his body. But his education will always be limited, and if someone takes up with him, no one will ever forget that he was a model, with the assumption that he was a labourer or, at best, a servant before that."

"M. Ture was never a model?"

I couldn't help sighing over the memory of Sébastien stretched on a bed like an odalisque, asking "Am I supposed to jerk myself off like all the women do?" I worshiped his beautiful body in every way I knew how in those days. "Only for me. Modeling only counts as a profession if you are paid for it, you know."

"Are the women treated the same as the men?"

"If someone takes a liking to them, they may be around in the evenings. But you can't expect as much of them in the end – they are women, after all."

"But you expect little of the men, too, since they are labourers."

"And the women are seamstresses or hat makers. One can expect a little more of the men, since many of them can read. But only a little. One cannot expect much of the working classes on the whole. You disagree because of your one friend, but as we have found morons enough in our own class, we must admit there are exceptions to every rule. You cannot think you would have anything in common with the average workman."

"But we might have more in common with them were they granted access to more of the things we love. Of course I was friends with Feuilly – we worshiped Constable together."

Constable. I was too young to have seen the Salon in 1824 where Constable took the first prize, but no one has ever forgotten it. Constable gave us Delacroix in his full glory, and Delacroix has given us everyone since. Art is not a perfect leveler, but it comes closer than anything else. One look at one work will tell you a man's greatness; I have never had either the talent or the innovative instinct to do more than copy the great men.

"Constable was a great man," I admitted. "So is Delacroix. But in the end, you are talking about a housemaid."

"Our father taught her to read."

"And I always thought it an eccentric sentimentality, of a piece with his near-worship of your memory. He could not bring himself to support strong action against the constitutional monarchy, as he believed in the general principle, so he made this token gesture instead. He at least took her in at fourteen or so; you have no such innocent excuse."

"My intentions are just as innocent. I do not deny that she is an attractive young woman, but her use to me, and my liking for her, have nothing of that sort of attraction."

"Be careful that she does not have that sort of attraction to you. Radet may be her consolation prize."

"So you have warned me before, and I still find the warning absurd. She weeps because she is a good girl. Come, let us, too, have our breakfast. Everything will seem far less grim once we have eaten."

But it was really not my business how he ran his household. I was in town to see Uncle Félix, and that was all. Uncle Félix is my mother's elder brother, who had been called up in the levy preparing to break the Peace of Amiens then conveniently got himself attached to General Marmont, who had the luck to avoid serious fighting for years. At his request, Uncle Félix was attached to the administration in Ragusa once Marmont was sent out there. Of course, all of this was long before I was ever born, and they did not often talk about the old days of glory, but I do now appreciate the irony that Uncle Félix's nephew was fighting hard against his old commanding officer in 1830. When Marmont threw in with the English in 1814, Uncle Félix threw in with the English. When Marmont defended the Bourbons against the mob, Uncle Félix spoke in favour of the Bourbons rather than the mob. My father was more sanguine about the constitutional monarchy than Uncle Félix ever was. One should perhaps also consider that he married a woman who had been at school with his sister, my mother, though a couple years below, and a couple years above my mother had been the future Duchess of Montebello – Lannes' wife, one of Empress Marie-Louise's ladies in waiting.

I tell you all this now so you can appreciate both how far into the ruling set Uncle Félix got himself and how far from it he remained at the same time, a lieutenant to the very end of the war. He will never forget this, and he is still mentally following the Duke of Ragusa. The late revolution had not been at all to his taste, recalling the way his hero and patron had been treated in 1830, though I had yet to hear his opinion of the election of this new Bonaparte. In my usual letter to him, always sent just after Christmas, I kept to the blandest of pleasantries and merely related any family events that were suitable for public consumption. This year, I again avoided all mention of politics, yet it was a much more difficult letter to write. I finally settled on a sort of bemusement, a "can you believe all the ways of the world?" sort of tone. "1848 has been a very strange, interesting, and in the end, happy year. A very curious event befell us in March: Julien returned home. He was not dead after all, for he is no ghost, and sits reading poetry with my wife as I compose this letter. A mix-up of orders or paperwork or something of that nature led to a wrong notification of death. The events of early this year have released him to the bosom of the family. We all wish it had happened much sooner, but his restoration, despite the strange nature of how it came about, has been most welcome." I believe I moved on to Mathieu's first lost tooth and some general news of the estate, closing with the usual intention to pay them a visit upon my return to Paris just after the first of the year. What else could I do? He would disapprove of any fate that left Julien alive and in Paris whilst his hero remained in exile. Julien had proved himself unworthy of the family in Uncle Félix's eyes long before his supposed death.

When I did make the usual visit, the day after my hasty arrival into town, I was shown into the library rather than the salon. "I had thought you far too old to indulge in childish pranks," Uncle Félix told me, his voice heavy with disapproval.

Aunt Catherine was not present, and it could only be to protect her from my "prank", as he put it. The unstated subject was only too obvious. "There have been many times I wish it had been a prank," I admitted, "but I have told only the truth. A strange government, isn't it, that manages to lose a prisoner?"

"A prisoner," he scoffed. "If your claim is true, then why have you not brought him here?"

"So you can ream him out for his politics again? I thought it best to warn you in advance. I know Aunt Catherine's health is not always the best."

"But you did alert us both in your letter."

"And I am not at all surprised you prefer to consider that letter an ill-conceived joke. Nevertheless, it is perfectly true, and I have come to pay the respects of the holiday and to ask if you would be willing to receive him."

"Yes, yes, respects of the holiday." But he did settle back somewhat in his chair, getting himself more comfortable for the battle ahead. "So what was his sentence?"

"Is this so you may crow or so that you may sympathise with my distress?"

"So you are distressed. Good. We are all distressed that the unfortunate past has come to haunt us in so many ways in the past year."

He was crowing. "He had no sentence," I answered, ignoring the political bait. "He was misplaced, so to speak, before he could come up for trial."

"This is the story he tells you?"

"He knew only that he remembered no trial, but so far as he was concerned, he might have been sentenced in absentia and never told his fate. By the time I knew anything, he knew all, through the investigations of a young man who had helped overthrow the government and took particular interest in the inhabitants of Saint-Pélagie."

"Does he regret the folly in which he wasted his life?"

"You will not like the answer."

"There is no shame in turning a madman over to proper care. You've a wife and children to defend."

"Why do you think him mad?" I complained. "You've not laid eyes on him in seventeen years. He is of our blood, he is of perfectly lucid mind even if we disagree politically, and he has taken up residence in our father's house here, as is his right and his inheritance. I have seen to his inheritance myself. I have come today to tell you that he is in residence here so that you might not be confused, or worried, should you encounter him in public. He has had a poor time of it, but he is beginning to go about in public now, and out of fraternal affection, I should like to keep as much awkwardness from him as possible. I do not say that you would recognise him straight off after so many years, but that Aunt Catherine has that curiosity that puts itself forth in social investigation. He does look much the same, and the family resemblance might provoke investigation that would naturally lead to an answer you would not like. I have told you so that you might know it to be true and prepare yourself to the eventuality that you might meet."

I was awkward as anything having this conversation at all – I had always been a little afraid of Uncle Félix, to be honest, as I suspected I had pleased him no more than Julien did. His hardness irritated my too-soft nature, and I never could blame Jérôme for buggering off. I knew my words were stilted as I wracked my brain for the most careful phrasing I could muster. If either of them had any say in the future, they would never meet, but one cannot trust Paris as anything more than a small town once one reaches our circles.

"Hmph. Tell me straight, what were his crimes?"

"None." I tried to remain firm, as if Uncle Félix were a foreign businessman rather than my mother's brother. "As I said, he was never tried, convicted of nothing."

"Arrested for something."

"I am not privy to the records," I lied. If I had wanted serious details, I could have asked Radet, and I believe he would have given out any information anyone wanted in those early, heady days of his faction's success. But it was enough for me that Julien believed himself guilty of murder and treason and that I believed he had paid enough for those crimes, such as they were. Radet was certainly no better, and he had a job in government; these were not the times to be picky about strangers, and Julien was my brother. We must be more understanding and compassionate to our own blood than to a random man on the street, especially when men like Uncle Félix, and women like my father's sisters, were tempted to put politics over higher loyalties. Julien was harder on himself than anyone with compassion would have been, far harder on himself than he was on the rest of the world because his only blind spot was himself. He had flagellated himself enough, and ?I could not allow Uncle Félix to add to his wounds. "I came here to tell you that he lives, not to be bullied into sharing your condemnation of his actions. I deplore his actions, but the previous government used him terribly. His very existence is evidence the previous government had much wrong with it. And you never liked Louis-Philippe. Since we must live under this new government, is it not best to accept one small benefit? Without family, what do we really have in life?"

The older generation had lived through everything – the first revolution, the Empire, the Restoration, and now they had seen yet another regime be born and die. To keep your wealth was to be pragmatic about all governments – I would do what I must for this one, wherever it took me. Julien would have to agree with that, for if I did not follow, I would lose the business, and all my men would lose their jobs. They would eventually be picked up by other firms as our stock was sold off to stave off our creditors, as a ship must have sailors, but the intervening months would spell ruin to hundreds. Julien could not begrudge me that, and Uncle Félix, living off acquired capital like the rest of us, could not afford to be selfish. "We do what we must, I suppose, but what a compulsion!"

"You need have no contact with him; you know his address well enough if you change your mind."

I felt more like an adolescent under Uncle Félix's gaze than I ever did under Julien's. It was a relief that before he could give me the full lecture I'm sure he felt I was missing from my own father, Aunt Catherine opened the hall door.

"Business on a Sunday? Oh, Charles, my dear, how good to see you!" She kissed me. "You have been hiding him from me," she chided her husband. "How are your lovely family?"

Uncle Félix broke in. "I shall tell her."

"Tell me what?"

"We'll discuss it later."

"My wife is quite well, and the children are growing rapidly, as children do." We made the usual family small talk, though Uncle Félix was looking daggers at me, until I felt I had made enough of a visit that I could leave. I felt my goodbyes must be awkward as I balanced a false warmth to Aunt Catherine with the icy glare of my uncle's disapproval.

I told Julien everything. He did not laugh at me, for which I was grateful, but he did sigh. "Our generation has proved a continual disappointment to Uncle Félix, hasn't it? First I wasn't manly enough because I preferred books to games; then I proved my manhood by espousing political opinions contrary to his notions of loyalty and right. He never liked his own son that much, I'm afraid. You must have been sadly effeminate as well."

"He doesn't know," I insisted hotly.

"I meant the art, not the other tastes. If he thought me unmanly for an interest in literature, he cannot have thought highly of your paints. What did Aunt Catherine have to say?"

"Nothing, because he hasn't told her yet. Her health is often poor."

"One must be careful of the ill," Julien said sympathetically. Mother and Aunt Catherine were great friends until Jérôme eloped with his opera dancer. Would she, if she were nearing the end of her life, forgive Jérôme at the promise of grandchildren, and forgive Julien by extension, or would she harden her resolution against a life that had not been at all as it had been promised? "Still, perhaps it should have been done in a more healthful season, or even not done at all, as surely they hardly go out anymore?"

"They still go to the opera, or at least they did last season," I told him. "You may keep to the stalls as much as you like, but eventually, you would meet them."

"Paris is forever a small town," he complained.

It was terribly small once one combined my mother's old Napoleonic connections and my father's industry and trade connections, so that one could hardly go anywhere without seeing a family we knew. Even the cheap boulevard theatres would have a younger generation slumming, for I did it in my day and Julien must have done in his youth. Even in the slums, one might encounter the women performing their good works for the honest widows and orphans, collecting stories with which to scandalise their friends who did not care to dirty their shoes, no matter how much they dirtied their souls.

Because Paris was so small, I felt there was one more call that needed to be made if Julien were beginning to stir in public. This was far more awkward, as I had rarely socialised with the family. But they had been almost family once, and she deserved to know.

Isabelle Laurier was now Mme Sévérin Auclair, and I had not attended the wedding, nor her first husband's funeral, and thus was quite distant from her family despite how close the Lauriers had been to us before Julien's disappearance. The first wedding, to Hippolyte Musson, had been a rather strained occasion between the families, a last grasp at a friendship that had really died with mother's failure to have dictated a permanent union. Pretty Isabelle had been forced into mourning for her fiancé, and Musson was the best she could get at the end of it. Mother had tried to turn it into a lesson to me that one should choose early, as one had the best opportunities to choose wisely, but I had only felt sorry that a pretty girl was being attached to a man older than my father. It was only later that I learned it was her own fault for letting Julien string her along for years without a firm engagement. However, I was never entirely certain she deserved Hippolyte Musson for the sin of not making up her mind sooner.

Admittedly, I had a second motive in wanting to see Mme Auclair. This business with Lucie was getting out of hand, and it was probably time to push Julien in a more productive direction if he sought a secretary, as it seemed he preferred to call his female helpmeet. If the English bluestocking had been real, there might be a chance she was widowed by now, as Isabelle had been, or even that she could still be a spinster, and the only key to tracking her down as a better recipient of Julien's affections, whatever they were, would be through the Lauriers. Mme Laurier was still alive, I believed, and living with her daughter. At least that had been the plan when her husband had died a few years ago – I had been at that funeral, and that was how I knew their daughter was now Mme Auclair. Something may have happened in the intervening years, however, and I dared not hope too much in such vague possibilities.

I sent a brief, awkward note, not explaining the situation but saying rather that I wished her family a happy and prosperous new year and hoped I could make a call to that effect. She replied with an equally brief note that she saw visitors on Thursday afternoons and should be glad to see me. I did not tell Julien anything of the nature of these communications, and he did not ask why I was receiving local post. Doubtless he assumed they related to my friends, as he left me to conduct my social life however I preferred. One night, he even took Lucie to a concert without asking me if I were interested in attending. Was he demonstrating that he could get on just fine without my interference? Was he asserting that he would have nothing to do with my deviance? Was he just ignoring me?

I should emphasise that I was very young when Mlle Laurier was first pushed at my brother, and then I was in school, with all the restrictions that entails, for the rest of the time they were patently not courting. I had laid eyes on her perhaps half a dozen times in my life, and I was too young to be invited to the grand event marking her first marriage. I had not been invited if there was any celebration of her second marriage, but it was at a period when I was traveling a great deal; my father may well have represented our family even if half the connection had been broken with my mother's death. With the deaths of my father and her father, the already frayed connection between the families dissolved entirely. Thus, the half dozen times I saw her were all when I was quite a youth, and her five years on me were the years that make a woman from a girl – Jérôme's six years on me were in some ways less significant.

Were I asked to describe Isabelle Laurier, I should have known nothing of her personality and could rely only on a few physical impressions. She had bright blonde hair, quite as good as Henri Enjolras, and a strong bosom over a narrow waist. A good complexion and rather heavy eyes were the only other characteristics I could remember. She was deemed quite a beauty, and she probably actually was. Julien had called her beautiful, and I had no reason to dispute that she must indeed have been fashionably dressed and light on her feet.

You can imagine what it cost me to renew an acquaintance that had never quite existed. It was undoubtedly polite to warn her of Julien's return, but that could have been done through an awkward letter rather than an awkward interview. Writing would have kept the whole business rather abstract, and lies about his whereabouts for the previous sixteen years could be more easily told at a distance. But I told myself it was best to make the interview, for it would better permit the true inquiry if I could see her expression when I mentioned Julien's name. In the name of my dead mother, I called upon the friendship of an earlier generation in that brief note wishing her a happy new year.

When she said I might come, I should have suspected that she felt something for Julien akin to what he felt for her. After all, even if he were still believed dead, he lived in between every line of the brief correspondence, being the strongest connection between her and me. But my prising errand made me nervous, and I attributed her acquiescence to the invocation of my mother's name. Thus on Thursday, I prepared to confront the fashionable beauty I vaguely recalled with the memory of her almost-fiancé. I did not tell Julien where I was going, but he had not notably cared all week where I might be, and my errand was best conducted in secrecy in any case. I was shown directly in to Isabelle's at-home, only to find her with two female visitors already.

Mlle Isabelle Laurier might have been all I remembered, but Mme Sévérin Auclair was completely unfamiliar to me. Hélène had borne two children and remained nearly as thin as ever; Mme Auclair's three had produced greater depredations on her figure. Yet her hair was still a bright blonde under her cap, and her hooded eyes had a sparkle unexpected in the fleshy matron she had become. She still dressed with taste, avoiding a too heavy reliance on frills that might emphasise her bulk. One could sense that she might have been a beauty once: she was still a handsome woman for her age, carrying her weight better than many.

"M. Combeferre!" She at least recognised me without having seen my card. "Please join us. I have not seen you in much too long. My condolences for your father. Mme Soral, Mme Vrigny, this is M. Combeferre. Our mothers were great friends, once upon a time," she explained. Her friends were of her own age and provided the contrast in which she did look relatively handsome. My mother had aged well, I think, until her illness; Aunt Catherine had not done. Thus Mme Auclair's set had weathered the changes nature wrought in similarly disparate fashion – unless these women were here now to make her look still the belle, while they continued to come so they might gossip horribly behind her back in jealousy over the varying degrees of disintegration. Women are like that, are they not? Some of us would not scruple to do it, so women cannot be any better.

I participated in small talk with the ladies, but Mme Auclair managed to turn the conversation to a close soon after. She had the great trick of being the great lady while bringing the stranger up to her form, unlike my mother, who was better at intimidating everyone except her most gossipy friends into silence. Had she learned this as a girl, or was it a product of age, marriage, experience, security? It must have been the latter, for Julien had called her a cow more than once. This woman had not the imperious manners to leave him so violently displeased.

When the ladies had left, she grew serious. "What is it you want, Charles? It is very strange to receive a visit from you." She had lapsed into familiar address when we were alone. "You must forgive my informality," she apologised. "In my head, you are still fourteen and very sullen. It must be the way of boys at that age – Hippolyte tends there already."

She was no different to how Julien had been a year ago in that regard. I waved away her apology. Indeed, in my head, she was still Isabelle, for Julien had abandoned formal reference to her years before he had ended by not marrying her. "I would be correct in assuming your husband does not read the leftist newspapers."

"Of course. What on earth is this about?"

"Julien."

She visibly tensed. "Why on earth would you come here and bring that nightmare up after all these years? I put on mourning for him – wasn't that enough?"

It seemed easier then to begin with the girl than with Julien himself. "I've learned lately that there was a girl, someone he met at one of your mother's parties, a few months before his – well. A foreign girl. I'd like to find her if I can."

"A foreign girl." She thought for a moment, then her eyes widened in recognition. "Her. I don't remember her name. I only remember it was the last embarrassment he caused me. She was older than I was – perhaps older than he was, if I am honest – dressed badly, completely out of her element."

"A bit of a bluestocking?"

"More than a bit, I should think. The only thing missing was a pair of spectacles. He was deep in conversation with her, in a rather unseemly proximity, and Maman sent me over to break it up. She wasn't invited back, but that would have been a favour to her rather than the punishment Maman intended. Maman saves everything; she would surely still have the list of whom she invited; what good it would do you after seventeen years, I don't know. Though putting her on Maman's blacklist saved me nothing, as Julien never could come to another party. Why bring it up now? Did you find a diary or something?"

"Not exactly." I started to regret that I had ever come. She was of Julien's generation. We had nothing in common since my parents' deaths. My very presence spoke to the alarming nature of what I had come to impart. She had embarrassment, not any softer feeling, for her history with Julien. "The revolution in February brought some interesting facts to light about the regime. And of course, not reading the leftist newspapers, you couldn't be expected to know some of those facts."

"What on earth are you hinting at, Charles?"

"Julien isn't dead."

She gasped. She gripped the arm of the sofa so tightly that her knuckles turned white. I focused on her tense hand rather than whatever the expression on her face might be. "Not dead? How on earth is that possible? I endured six months of mourning for him before Maman would allow me to accept anyone's hand. What do you mean, not dead?"

"It seems there was a combination of bureaucratic ineptitude and fate. He was heavily wounded on the barricade and seemed likely to die at any moment, and in the confusion, he was never brought to trial." The whole truth came spilling out to her where Uncle Félix had provoked only half-truths. Why was it easier to tell strangers than my own family? "When he did not die, rather than admit the mistake, he was listed on the prison books and thrown in with the rest. Somehow, in sixteen years, he never managed to contract consumption or typhoid or anything else that would take care of their problem, thus when a representative of the new government made inspections and released certain prisoners who had been sentenced for crimes against a king who was no longer king, there he was, able to be found and released. Into my hands."

"My god. How long have you known?"

"Since the beginning of March. He's been with me the whole time."

"How is he?" I looked up – her voice was suddenly tender, and her whole aspect had changed. The initial panic had gone, and in its place was something more akin to love than I had seen from anyone when he was mentioned.

"You care?" I asked in surprise.

"We didn't hate each other. We endured rather more than we should have done, but I suppose we could each have been a bit more forceful with our parents. But no, we did not hate each other. Has he asked about me?" Something of the coquette she must have been was suddenly very strong.

"No. But then, there was nothing to ask. I told him what I knew of you at the same time I had to tell him that mother and father were both dead."

"Of course. But how is he?"

"I shall have to provide some context," I hedged. _How is he?_ was such a loaded question.

"Of course."

"I received a telegram telling me that, contrary to a death certificate in one set of files, he was alive and I should receive him at a particular date and time. There were a few prisoners of that nature who had been kept in the solitary cells for a long period of time, either because they had been troublemakers or trouble had seemed to be created around them. I saw three or four others who either could not walk or could barely walk and were entirely possibly out of their heads. Julien had been longest in those cells, alone, and he could walk, speak clearly, think logically – well, it's Julien. Nothing else seemed to affect him as other men were affected, so why should madness?"

"So he has gone mad? What a pity."

"I don't know that he has done. I also don't know that he hasn't." I must have told her so much because she was the first person since Pontmercy who both knew Julien those years ago and cared what had become of him since. "He's unchanged in so many ways that when something comes over him I don't expect, I don't know if it is age or madness or if I simply never saw something that was always there. Did you know he had grisettes when he was a student?"

She laughed. "Oh, it is easy to forget how young you were when it all began. Did you know we kissed in the garden at Bourron, more than once, and rather enjoyed it? Once upon a time, he was handsome, I was beautiful, and he was rather good at it, so of course it was all thoroughly enjoyable. He was too good at it for me to have been the first. That doesn't mean I wanted to marry him, just that I didn't at all mind that he kissed me. No, it became obvious to us both in time that we sought very different things in life, and no one would listen to us. It simply wasn't going to be the match it appeared to be on paper, and I resented him for not putting his foot down firmly enough. Though I never really did, either. I kept thinking I could do so much worse, and perhaps he did, too. We never quite said 'no'. I think I'd like to see him, for old time's sake."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Because he's mad? Or because you think he hates me? Or because I'm probably still twenty-one and lovely in his mind instead of fat and fast approaching forty?"

"Because it's not really a good idea. He was extremely ill-used in prison. The scars are not very nice."

"How bad?" she asked sympathetically. I described his injuries as I had described them to Hélène. "That's all? You made it sound as if his nose had been cut off or something."

"It's quite bad," I insisted.

"You didn't see Musson before he died, did you? He had this growth on his neck, the size of an orange. I think subtractions must be far better than additions of that nature." She demonstrated the size of the growth on her own neck with a rather laughing expression that I could not help finding very charming.

"He was uncomfortable around my wife for the longest time," I tried to explain, leaving out that in the end, he had become far too comfortable with her.

"Pfft. I heard your wife is a raving beauty. She may well have had him tongue-tied upon a first meeting twenty years ago. Would he want to see me?" she asked, more seriously.

"I don't know. A friend of his, a gentleman who had been on the barricade with him, came to see him in the spring. It did not go well. But that was in the spring, and he didn't go out, then. He spent the summer in Marseille, which I think was good for him. He at least left the house almost daily and walked about in public and made the acquaintance of a local photographer. He got on a bit better with the former revolutionary when we conducted some business with him this autumn."

"Is he is Paris with you?"

"I've signed the house over to him, so he is living there. He is beginning to go about in Paris, and I must admit, I conceived this visit rather as a warning to you. In many ways, he is very little changed, and if you saw him at the opera, you would know him at once."

"I would like to see him. But you know what is best. I shall have Maman look into that other matter, the bluestocking. Would you like to see her?"

"Would she want to see me?"

"Her falling out, such as it was, was with your mother, and it should have been with me. You are too young to have any blame attached to you."

"Perhaps another time."

"How long are you in Paris?"

"I should not have stayed so long, but I wanted to see you."

"Your wife is in Marseille?"

"Yes, with the children."

"Do call again next time you are in town. Bring Julien, if he will come. And perhaps I will have a bluestocking for him. You want her for him, not out of mere curiosity, don't you?"

"He should have a wife, or at the very least, a trustworthy sort of mistress, not a girl who might prefer to take advantage of him rather than look after him."

"I make no promises, for I think we both know from experience that one cannot order up a satisfactory wife for Julien, but if she did indeed head in the direction she must have done, it might not be such a bad thing for him to look her up. Every old maid must at bottom want a husband, and Julien in any condition would be superior to a Musson. But I shall have to find her, so I make no promises as to my success."

I thanked her for her consideration, and then I promptly left town without telling Julien that I had ever met with her. I preferred to have some sense of the bluestocking before I allowed Mme Auclair to edge him in that direction again.


	15. Chapter 15

At the beginning of April, I received a letter from Julien ranting about the new law suppressing the political clubs.

"Your people cannot let go of their fears of their subordinates allying against them. Did the political clubs really lead to the events of June? Does banning them now really prevent trades unionists and socialists and even moderate republicans from meeting as we always did, secretly and in defiance of your laws? It has only taken a year for our rights, paid for in blood, to be bargained away by frightened legislators. First the press freedoms, now this confirmation that our rights of assembly are no rights at all: is the next step a return to the sacrilege laws of Charles X? What good is a constitution when it is not respected by the very men who voted it into being?"

I was uncertain whether he were lecturing me from afar, or if he hoped to provoke me into agreeing with him. I rather thought that it was best to shut down the political clubs, otherwise they might think themselves encouraged to continue propagating their riots every month. Clandestine meetings surely led to more time between outbreaks. It was for his own good, too: I was not confident then that his nerves had entirely recovered. But I did not follow up on the subject; the Assembly were giving us both fits enough, it seemed. He could be as angry as he liked about the suppression of the clubs. I was more concerned with the lack of real discussion of tariff reform. Their revolution had interrupted a possibly useful reform process, and they still had not yet taken it up again. The clubs would become useless if I could have more work for the men, solving both our problems. But the Assembly were more concerned with fighting itself and members setting themselves up for the next election than with actually solving the economic crisis on which their current careers had been built.

At least he and his household were surviving the latest outbreak of cholera, which had kept me in Marseille beyond my usual spring visit to Paris. I had lately received a letter from Fort-de-France requesting my attention, but with legislative elections coming up, it appeared I would not be able to leave for the Caribbean until the heat of summer and risk a return during the season of hurricanes. Alternately, I could turn the trip to some use by riding out the worst hurricane months of late summer and autumn in investigating the possibilities of America's growth – wouldn't we prefer our ships bring our goods into New Orleans rather than Americans do it all themselves? Perhaps the family split could be repaired to our mutual benefit, assuming the Assembly ever did something about the raw cotton tariff. But that would leave my wife alone for close to six months, a period to which she had submitted before, but without whatever temptations my brother might cause.

As I was making final plans for a short, hot trip to the Caribbean, daring to stay away from Marseille no longer than a couple of months at most, I received a very different letter from Paris. "Will you be in town at all this spring? I have not seen Julien, but I believe I have tracked down his bluestocking. I am not certain a letter from me would be a pleasant surprise to him, as all this has been your doing. My mother would also like to see you next time you are in town, if you have the time. I have not yet told her of Julien, merely that you had come across some references and were curious. Her mind is the only part of her that has not begun to suffer with age, and the doctors have said a sudden shock may not be good for her. I hope I have a better heart, for the idea of never being surprised again is terribly distressing. In any case, she would like to see you, and it would be most favourable if you were to dine with us if you can spare the time. I think she has forgiven your mother for my first marriage, perhaps because Musson agreed to a very favourable contract and was kind enough to die when I was still young enough to remarry. One day soon you will meet Sévérin, for I am not in the habit of inviting men to the house who are not acquainted with my husband, even at the behest of my mother. Do let me know if we are to proceed in whatever folly of middle-aged matchmaking you have planned. I will only give up my information if I believe it for Julien's good, so you and he must convince me, beginning with a proper visit."

Of course it was a folly to suggest that a half-remembered single meeting seventeen years earlier could provide some relief to whatever loneliness had driven Julien to Lucie and my wife, but it could be no worse than allowing him to continue in his own way. I replied to Isabelle that I could come for a few days at the beginning of May, before the elections, and I wrote to Fort-de-France that I would sail immediately after the elections, as we had a ship due to leave on the 17th. It would put me in Fort-de-France around or just before the first of June, and with any luck, the business could have me home by August. I would have to brave the possible storms, just as I expected my captains to do.

I did not feel I was exerting an unwanted control over his life. The Englishwoman was not Sébastien, after all, with a history no outsider could be expected to understand. I was setting up a chain of contacts, not pushing him into or out of a long-standing relationship. But if he were to live, and remain in Paris, then he could not hide from his past, and he had no intention of it since he had accepted the house. He had not stopped me from writing to our aunt and uncle as our only surviving relatives, and I daresay had any of us known Jérôme's address, he would have written himself to congratulate him on his ill-advised marriage and perhaps to take the opportunity to foment more rebellions in Italy. Writing to any of them would have been easier than showing his face. But since he had done so well with Mme Pontmercy - and my wife - it did not seem such a stretch that he might easily take up with his bluestocking were she free. I took the probability of her interest as a matter of course: if she were free, then she was most likely an old maid and would be glad of any interest in her by people who were not well-meaning relatives. Every old maid still wishes she might one day have a love affair. Julien was ready-primed with sweet speech, a respect for her intellectual capacity, and a need for a woman's care. He had been delivered into my hands, and I felt it was incumbent on me to provide for all his needs. I would have acted the same way even if I had not feared he was making an improper alliance with my wife. A woman of his own age and class, free to marry, was the best possible replacement for his outsized attachment to Lucie. That was all. He had thus far two choices: a housemaid or my wife. I could not be certain he was acting on either or both, but he needed a safer bosom to which his many sorrows might be cradled. The bluestocking was the solution most ready to hand.

I cannot say the plan was well laid. I still did not entirely understand my brother, or perhaps even myself. I wrote to him to say I would be in town for a brief visit at the beginning of May, and he insisted that I stay with him, as I had counted on. I did not then explain the real purpose of my visit, cloaking it in a chance to visit my tailor before going overseas, until I had arrived and received a note from Mme Auclair properly inviting us to visit her.

"Are you free on Wednesday?" I asked in as offhand a way as I could manage.

"I have no firm plans. For what purpose do you require my presence?"

"We – you and I – have been invited to pay a social call."

"Uncle Félix has accepted my existence?" he asked sarcastically.

"No." There had been no communication at all from Uncle Félix, which I had considered an improvement in relations. Having never been pleased with our awkward attempts at family life, I did not miss them. I regretted that we had never managed it better, but that emotion had not made me keen to reform our family into perfection. It was better not seeing what remained of them. "It is from Mme Auclair. Isabelle Laurier."

"How does she know to invite me?" Of course he was suspicious. There was no reasonable excuse other than a half-truth.

"Because I saw her the last time I was in town. It would not have been easy for her had she run into you at the opera."

"Women in boxes never note men in the stalls. She should have forgot all about me."

"As you have done such a good job forgetting about her? She is safely married, and she wishes to see you. What is so terrible about that?"

"It isn't terrible at all. It is merely frustrating that you do not trust me to assemble my own social circle."

"You can set up your electoral assemblies all you like." The political clubs were banned, but private groups of any nature, with irregular public meetings, were still permitted by law. The term "club" was thus the only successful target of the ban, and with the upcoming elections for the legislative assembly, "electoral assembly" had immediately been determined its natural successor for the government to battle as it strove for order and merely upheld chaos. "However, if you are going to go places frequented by people you used to know, it is a social kindness to alert them that they are not seeing ghosts. Will you come with me on Wednesday?"

"Very well," he seemed to agree reluctantly.

But on Wednesday, he dressed as well as his sombre wardrobe permitted, and he took the silver-headed stick Hélène had given him for the new year that I had never yet seen leave the house. He looked nervous, nearly as he had when meeting my wife for the first time. Hélène and I were well accustomed to his face, his hand, his limp by this time, but for all my warnings, I feared nothing could quite prepare Mme Auclair for the shock of the change. I supposed he felt it, too. "She is not much what she used to be," I told him. "Marriage and children take a toll on a woman." But he looked out the window and did not answer.

The maid who answered the door had prepared herself, it seemed, for she immediately and decorously led us straight into the salon. One flick of her eyes over his scar, and we did not even need to introduce ourselves. Mme Auclair was waiting for us, her embroidery in her lap but patently untouched. "Thank you, Annette. Bring in the coffee, then I'll ring if I need anything further." The maid bobbed and left us alone. Isabelle stood, smiling. "Well, Julien, come to the window and let me look at you properly. Your brother has been frightening me with gothic tales."

To my surprise, Julien obeyed immediately, all of his stiff diffidence melted away with that one look from her. She looked him over, even took him by the chin and examined his face closely in what spring sunlight had penetrated the narrow street. "Charles, you are a fool," she told me straight. "I've seen worse at the opera. There's a gentleman in army uniform who is missing his nose. And an ear. Arabs. In any case,"she addressed Julien, "if he goes out, there is absolutely no reason for you to hide."

"So now you approve of me?"

"Didn't I always approve of you?"

She was patently flirting with him, and to my surprise, he reciprocated tone for tone, smile for smile. He had said he had not hated her, but he had not been this easy with me, or with Pontmercy, the only other people from his past he had yet encountered. "In the summerhouse more than in the ballroom, as I recall."

She manoeuvred him so they were seated together on the sofa, knees almost touching, more like old lovers than I could ever have predicted. Why was I still there, I had no idea. I should have left with the maid after she deposited the coffee tray. "The more I saw of you in those few moments we were permitted unchaperoned, the more I wondered just why my mother was so keen to have you for a son-in-law. And I liked you all the better for it."

"That was always our trouble."

"You had all the hallmarks of youthful rebellion, except my mother had picked you out. It was no wonder we could never quite make up our minds."

"It would have been easier if we had hated each other."

"If you had never kissed me in the summerhouse." He really had kissed her in someone's garden? And then called her a cow?

"I still do not know if I should blame the camellias or your mother."

"My mother. The camellias were her idea."

"It could have ruined you. And possibly me."

"That was the idea, to force the issue. I think. It was better for me to play dumb and let my mother put all her plots in motion, since I could never stop her. I learned that from the beginning. Something about a book: I can't quite remember. But she would not hear the word 'no', so there we were. Still, I was grateful for that kiss. It meant a great deal."

"To your corruption?"

"Yes," she grinned. "And to my salvation. I learned later what I could stand, but from you, I knew what I liked. I should not be married today were it not for you. One has more freedom in contracting a second marriage. I could choose according to my desires."

"So you are happy."

"I am. Fat and happy. Happy the woman who has lost her figure and still can be desired by a man she desires."

"I am glad of it."

"Then what shall we do with you, since there will be no more kisses in the summerhouse from me?"

"Nothing. I am content to be left alone in my state."

"Men uglier than you find mistresses daily. You, at least, have half a good face, plenty of money, and more charm than by rights you ought to have."

"I am not what I once was," he told her, rather darkly.

But she matched him with a ready sympathy. "Are any of us?" How well they knew each other, when I had been certain the animosity I remembered had been from them as near strangers untimely pushed together. "You know, it is said that all men have their mistresses, but I was never certain that you did. Not because I felt myself so singular, but because you took so little time for yourself."

"I did, for you were hardly the first girl I kissed in a garden, but I had none when you knew me."

"I thought of you on my first wedding night. I might have enjoyed it with someone like you, I thought. The second time, I thought only of Musson's difficulties and what a pleasant change Sévérin made. Well, it has been more than a year you have been free: you must have someone by now."

"As I said, I am not what I once was."

"What a pity."

What a lie. He had Lucie in some way and wanted my wife. And he had charmed Mme Pontmercy. And he was making inroads on Isabelle again already.

"How odd it all is, to have you sitting there," she burst out, breaking an awkward silence that had threatened to descend. "Did you know Maman forced me to endure six months of mourning for you? Thank the Lord we never did actually marry. To be twice a bigamist would have been simply too much to endure."

He smiled again at that. "I'm not certain I would have been quite so happy to walk out of the basement of Saint Pélagie to find you and a husband waiting, even if the second one is preferable to the first."

"How are you, really? Flirting with me tells me nothing, for you always managed it without entirely meaning it. Charles is worried about you because he cannot decide if you are mad or not."

"Isabelle!" In my head, she will never really be Mme Auclair. She is always Isabelle Laurier, and I am still the half-child who thought she would become a very demanding sister. Julien had quickly given up any pretense of formality and "Mlle Laurier" was usually "Isabelle" whenever she was mentioned. Neither of them seemed to notice, or care about, my sudden lack of formality when her Christian name popped out of my mouth.

"I am no more mad than anyone else," Julien insisted. "But aren't we all a bit mad in one way or another? Every passion is a madness."

"Perhaps you should just say you are as mad as you ever were, and probably in the same way. You're staring at me," she accused him after a pause.

"You do look well."

"I do not. I'm fat and middle aged." She could not have been much above the age of thirty-five, not much older than I, but the difference between a boy in school and a young woman in society was far broader than the four or five years between us. She was closer to my age than to Julien's in years, but she had been raised for the benefit of an earlier generation than I belonged to.

"Well fed, well cared for. How many children?"

"Three. Two from the first marriage, one from this. I am glad to have given Sévérin a child of his own, but I think there shall be no more. It is wearing on a woman. You hardly look changed. It is not fair that men have it so much easier than women. Oh, stop looking at me if you're not going to adore me."

"When did I last adore you?"

"True, that was long past by the time you got yourself arrested."

"Why am I here, if not to pay homage to you?"

"Do you pay homage?"

"Do you not still feel it your due?"

"I am too old for it to be owed me any longer. A woman of forty does not have the same claims as a woman of twenty. But I will take it when it is kindly given. Perhaps it is for Charles to say why you are here. He is the one who told me you were here to be invited, after all."

Was this my role, then, to pace silently in a strange salon while they flirted until called upon to confess my interest in the affair? It was not a role I had sought, or one I relished. "As I told you, I did not want you to take fright should you see him at the opera."

"I told you about the poor officer without the nose. And after Musson's illness, I daresay I should take fright at nothing. He had a growth the size of an orange, poor man, right here," she told Julien, again demonstrating where the hideous tumour had been attached to his neck. "I prefer subtractions to additions any day. Had I seen you at the opera, I should have sent Sévérin over to introduce himself, so I might discover if you were one of the odd branches of the family tree. I should certainly not have taken you for yourself, as you were dead. I have no fear of ghosts, Charles, for they have no reason to haunt me."

"Please accept my condolences for your husband's death."

"Thank you, but I was glad to be rid of him. I was a very wealthy widow and barely over the age of thirty. I have done well in my life, when all is said and done, and Charles wishes that you would do well. He must think you in need of a wife, for he came to me with some tale of a foreign bluestocking you may have had a tendre for."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Some things did not need to be brought up, much less shared publicly."

"Then I suppose you do not care that she is in Brussels."

"Who?"

"Mlle Diana McGovern. Mother keeps everything, so I looked up in her old diaries how the girl was ever here and wrote a letter to her cousin. Do you, or do you not, want the address of an old maid of an Irish bluestocking you once embarrassed me with?" She teased him with a scrap of paper she had taken from a little work table by the sofa, but he grabbed at it eagerly. Like a schoolboy, almost. How many women did he need?

"You should never have done this," he tried to chastise me, but the paper had been immediately stashed in his fob pocket.

"She never married, her cousin Mme Guériaud tells me, and she is now teaching at a school in Brussels. You may do with that address as you like. Charles may wish you to marry her, but it is of no concern to me. You embarrassed me with her once, but I think we're all immune to those vacillations now."

"Thank you. We should go. I'm sure Charles has imposed far more on your time than he should have done."

"Nonsense. It gave me a project, and I must admit that it is very good to see you, no matter what has happened in these intervening years. I'll send an invitation round to dinner. You must meet my husband."

"If you remember my reputation, and I know you do, I think I must not meet your husband."

"Nonsense," she laughed. "You may not get on with him, but you are the closest thing to a socialist we know. Perhaps you can explain what has been going on with this government, for we cannot make heads or tails of it."

"Charles could do just as well. The socialists have not been driving this government at all."

"No one, not even the government, knows what the government are doing or are to do," I told them. After the June Days, and the election, it certainly felt true. "And I am leaving for the Caribbean on business as soon as these elections are concluded. I'm off home tomorrow as it is."

"Then you must dine with us," she insisted to Julien, "and explain it all. Charles makes it sound a very poor boat to be in."

"I have faith it will work out, though it may take years," Julien said. "It must."

"Or you'll have no faith left in anything?"

She had joked, but he was deadly serious. "I fear you have the right of it."

"Nothing will ever change you, and I am glad of it." She clasped his hand. "You will dine with me one of these days, will you not?"

"As if I ever could say 'no' to you."

"Mind you don't say no behind my back again."

He did seem somewhat the better for the visit, even if he again attempted to take me to task for it. "It was not your place to force an acquaintance with her simply to bring up unwanted images of the past."

"They did not seem unwanted."

"How were you to know that when you began? And you are to have no contact with Miss McGovern, do you understand? She has never met you, and I daresay she would not choose to have her life uprooted by a stranger. By either you or me, for we are all strangers. It was one party more than fifteen years ago."

"I merely thought you might appreciate the opportunity," I hedged. As I explained to Hélène when I returned home a couple of days later, "I cannot ask him to go to her, or even directly tell him that she would surely make a better companion for him than Lucie has yet been, but I can put the notion in his head and the means by which he can do it."

"Do you think she will welcome a suitor after so many years?"

"She should do. No one else has come for her."

"Not everyone looks to marriage," she said. "Perhaps she is happy in her work."

"Can a woman be happy in her work when she could have a husband and family instead?"

"If she is his own age, as you believe, then she is too old to have a family. You ask her to be excited for the prospect of a husband crippled in body and perhaps diseased in mind."

"So now even you worry that he is mad."

"I cannot say 'mad'. I do not think he is quite mad. But he was alone for so long, or surrounded by all the wrong sort of people. He cannot be expected to be like other men, having been outside of society for longer than was quite good for anyone. I like him very much, but I recognise he is not as he perhaps should be. And I wonder if that very difference would make him a difficult husband, particularly to a woman who has spent so much of her life pushing her own way. Perhaps she might let him court her, but I do not think you can count on her marrying him."

"Would you have married me if your mother had not been pushing you to marry?"

"I don't know. Your attentions were the most flattering I ever had, but I have never felt myself equal to the task of raising children and being a social helpmeet. I do my best with the little ability I have, but we have betrayed each other badly from the very beginning. Yet I very much wished to leave my mother's roof, and I should be miserable if I were still bound to her. Perhaps I should have entered a convent, as I am not particularly suited for the world, but I am not suited for the cloister, either. Something would have had to be done, and it is likely any marriage could have gone just as badly, merely in a different way. At least I know it is not my fault that you cannot love me, and that has been some consolation. I do not put myself in this woman's place, you know. I simply don't want Julien to be disappointed as I was when a dream was supplanted by reality. Men have that luxury, and it should not be denied him."

"I am forbidden to go any further in playing matchmaker. He made that very clear."

"Good. Now do not worry for me whilst you are away. I know the trip will be good for you. We have been too much together for your liking. Perhaps I will invite Julien to come in August, for he ought to escape the hottest month of the year, and then we can all be together upon your return."

I went to the Caribbean, though I did want to see if any letters were sent to Brussels, and it proved the best and worst trip I could make. It is true what the sailors say, that salt water washes away all troubles. The troubles of land are simply left behind, and the inertia of the journey takes over. The creak of the rigging, the fresh salt air, the habits of a completely different life to the one left behind on land. I had not been to sea in too long, and perhaps I had been much the worse for it. Sébastien had never gone with me on the longest journeys; though we had spent many a holiday away from home, they were largely in Northern Europe. Just far enough away we could not have adjusted our timing to return home, but close enough that he could desert me and return to our friends in Paris by land if he felt he must. He was an indifferent sailor; the salt was not in his blood.

To go to the Indies, you must leave Europe behind. Your thoughts must bend entirely to the new world, and the old one can be sloughed away by wind, salt, and time. Aboard ship, I thought all my qualms patently ridiculous. Why should a man give up the pretty bird in the hand for another man's wife? If he was not bringing Lucie's education and position along for his own pleasure, then he still had three more young women in that house. The cook was least attractive of the lot, and I have seen men take much worse as mistresses. What could he possibly want with my wife? I had asked her to give him the benefit of the doubt and not to assume him some unrepentant criminal, and she had taken her time and done just as I had asked. Hélène was a perfectly loyal wife; her sense of duty would permit no less. And if Julien preferred to look up his bluestocking rather than continue to remake Lucie in her image, my presence on the scene would merely put me in his way. These troubles faded under the hot skies and fresh breezes by the time we passed the Azores.

Troubles always faded past the Azores. The Mediterranean often feels like a lake, as if the far end were really not so far from home despite the strangeness of the people. They are merely the old Greek lands, and the Greeks came to Marseille as well. You can steam around the Mediterranean, or sail within sight of shore. Home is never fully left behind. But out in the Atlantic, the depths and the danger and the sheer distance from land conspire to make one leave everything behind. It has been a resource for me ever since I first traveled out at the age of eighteen. No more mother, no more father, no one but the captain knew either of them, and at last, there was no pressure to be anything. Land, men, women, family do not matter on the journey.

I could describe again the lovely _mestif_ who served me, with his tan skin and light eyes and woolly negro hair, but you have seen the pictures he let me sketch of him, and my tale should recommence with my return to Marseille in September. It was easy to extend my trip, thanks to the mestif and the general welcome I always have from the creole community. Metropolitans like myself, of good upbringing who treat these wealthy, long-established families as they ought to be treated, are more rare in their society than we ought to be. They may behave as aristocrats when we all know their ancestors in France were fairly low, but let us recall the new nobility rather than look only at the old and treat all men of recognized virtue, whether it be by wealth, lineage, or action, as acceptable companions. I like dinner parties and picnics and shooting expeditions, as you well know, and I have far more freedom to indulge in these tastes abroad, where no one expects my wife to attend. It is hard to make so many excuses for Hélène or I would not be so much at home. It was a very pleasant trip, one that I had been in distinct need of for more than a year. Julien did not write, but I had two letters from Hélène noting how the children got on. Hélène is not a poor writer, but the longer we are married, the less we have to say to one another.

It was with some reluctance that I stepped aboard ship at the end of August. I cannot stay too many months away from the home ports, but I had at last come to some understanding with myself that my return was for the business, not to monitor my brother. After so many dinners made difficult by creoles who would not sit next to quadroons yet would still attend the same functions, what did it matter if Julien did marry his housemaid? She was white, and he would find a circle that would accept them. It was a new era there, with the full abolition of slavery, and it was a new era here, with workingmen in the Assembly. If the creoles and quadroons can find a way to get along, we could manage a housemaid in the family if we could not get the bluestocking.


End file.
